Three days in and I’ve already broken my goal of writing here every day in June. I can come up with all kinds of excuses. I had to apply my drained motivation to other things. It was the day of the Pride Parade where I go to see rainbows and dogs. I had errands to run around the city and wanted to go play with my dogs with one of the free frisbees I was handed during the parade. I didn’t do the cleaning I may have had the time for Saturday if I had any energy at the end of the day, and I had even less energy at the end of yesterday than I did Saturday. (I still stayed up past midnight, though, because of something else that was long overdue.)
Last Wednesday I was feeling woozy all day. It could’ve come from a number of factors or combinations of some or all of them – a return to regularity after several days without it, readjusting to sober weekdays after a long stretch of festive drinking, short sleep, one of my brain’s many neurological curveballs – and those factors could also have something to do with energy levels being taxed.
Or it could just be returning symptoms of a physical depression, one without sadness or despair but rather inert limbs refusing to be moved to get things going. There’s no motivation to get engaged, or at least any attempt at building it stays contained in a shell that won’t break.
Tonight I promised myself I was going to get shit done. I managed basic life tasks like buying a loaf of bread after work because that can be done in zombie mode – but going on a short run later, or organizing the shit sprawled across my coffee table, will take quite a bit more. I avoid doing what I’m supposed to do on the best of days, but the lifelessness of depression keeps me still. If I had a normal level of energy at least I would avoid doing things by doing other things. But I’m sad to say that not writing yesterday wasn’t well procrastinated. I didn’t do anything I place of it. I just didn’t do it, despite knowing that I should.