Anhedonia
Anhedonia. I forgot this side of things. Normally it’s overwhelming unrest, instability, frailty. Not mania or anything like that, but the feeling like I am dying, like I am being pulled to pieces.
This is just weariness. Exhaustion. Nothing. I haven’t touched booze, and it’s beyond the withdrawal period, so it can’t be that. I think it’s a good thing, because for once it doesn’t feel like PTSD, which maybe means I’m getting better, if I’m able to feel this way again. If I’m able to just feel depressed instead of like I am disintegrating.
I lift, I feel nothing. I barely have the energy to get out of bed to eat. I go for a walk, and I find myself two hours away, feeling no better. I read, and halfway down the page I realise my eyes are moving across the words while I think about something else entirely, and I am completely unable to engage. I space out staring at the screen. I open games only to close them five minutes later after staring at the menu. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling while the fan blares at max speed.
I comforted a friend, Enty, through their breakup, but I know even though my care is real it feels like I am just mouthing words. We’ve never really met in person before, I wish our first meeting had been under happier circumstances. It’s okay, they are drunk. They aren’t flirting with me like they usually do, which is odd because I always felt like she flirted not because she actually liked me, but because she felt lonely, and broken. Like a lot of people she thinks some fleeting skinship or pillow talk would somehow cure that feeling. But that just leads to shame and regret.
I’m tired. She falls asleep while we watch Twin Peaks, so I walk home. She’ll be okay. She’s a stronger lady than she gives herself credit. I go home and hug my pillow, wishing it was her, wish that she was holding me, and try to cry. Nothing comes. I am too exhausted to even cry. I long to be held just like she longed to be held, but I know it would not make me feel any better.
I don’t even want to drink. I just keep trying to feel something, trying new stimuli, trying anything that doesn’t hurt me. I see a group of friends hanging out at the bus stop and wonder how it would feel as my body became a human salad of innards and bone against the underside of a passing 18-wheeler. I clench my gloved hands, and wince as I feel my chewed nailbeds press against the leather. Fuck. I felt something. I fucking felt something and it was pain. I pull them off and pray.
I’m home. I lie back down in bed and try not to think about the flick of pain that comes from my fingertips with every keystroke. I try to type like I am tiptoeing.
I'm tired.