I don't like my life. Really, really don't like it. Notice I don't say I hate it. It's not like I'm going to off myself or anything. Then there'd be no one to feed the cats, do the laundry, keep the raccoons from shitting in the pool, mow the lawn, make dinner. So there's work to do. Both internally and externally, obviously.
I don't think I am "clinically depressed." However, I have these episodes where I am sinking further and further into something dark and painful:
I was also going to put that I cry all the time, but I cry all the time anyway so it doesn't count. I really am a sap. Commercials, music, TV, movies, poetry, sunlight, moonlight -- any one of these hits the right chord and it's waterworks. If I'm around any humans when that happens, I find a way to excuse myself until I get a grip. Around the cats it isn't a problem, but they don't like to see it so I just press the tears back into my eyes and move on.
Lately, these episodes have arrived with a little extra seasoning. Namely, panic. That happened the other day while washing dishes. RunningHammer mentioned we should watch Fringe. He remembered how much I like that show and wants to know what it's all about. It's not streaming anywhere, but our library has the entire series. (We followed The Walking Dead until one of their flagrantly unreasonable mid-season finales made it difficult to hoist that mythology another time.) So two weeks later I still haven't been to the library, and I'm at the sink, and then it hits me: RH is in his senior year, he'll be leaving for college before I know it, we'll never get to finish Fringe, I'll be all alone forever. Cue the sudden onset of aforementioned symptoms plus the lovely added bonus of my mind becoming white hot exploding aluminum.
This really shouldn't be. I mean, I have a good job that pays me well to do interesting work with pleasant colleagues whom I never see. My health is superb. I take care of my household (yard, pool, shopping, cleaning, cooking, homework help, laundry). I help out my neighbors both young and old. I make sure the feral cats around the neighborhood are as safe as I can make them and that they have shelter during hurricanes and the day and a half we enjoy winter. I floss.
So why, as I push up against 60, are things getting so much harder? Why am I always sad? How is it that I am so crushingly lonely every single day? I know my name is lovejoyman, but dudes, I don't feel anything like it.
I don't have any answers, and I know most normal remedies will never apply to me. All my pursuits are solitary. I am socially inept, painfully shy, and gruesomely introverted. I have zero friends and no way to cultivate them if I did. Besides, I'm a lousy friend. So maybe I deserve this.
If you have read this far, thank you. There's a bunch of stuff I haven't spilled, but honestly I'm a bit exhausted by this morbid introspection and navel-gazing. Regarding the previous paragraph, I'm currently devising strategies to answer the questions in the paragraph before that one. I'm tired of this. The future terrifies me, but facing my fears is a good thing. Right? But that's a topic for another daylog.
Until then, peace out.