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2001-08-20 / 1:31 p.m. ~Functional Depression?~ I know it's early, it's only noon here, but so far it's quiet, it's calm, it's oddly comfortable. It's responsibility, it's obligation, but it's normal and it's what is. I was walking to the bathroom earlier, for the first time today, and I was thinking how long I've been here, how this feels so natural to me, how easy it all is, to come here every day, to be here, how awful those days are when I feel I'll die if I don't leave, but how all in all it's simply what I do. We are all pooling together to try for the lottery again, the Big Game drawing tomorrow night amounting to some ridiculous sum we may once again not win. We anxiously pulled out our dollar bills first thing this morning, again enlisting P. to get new tickets for us, and to cash in the one which won us a whole dollar. As natural as it feels to be here, in my cube, feet propped up under the desk, typing on my nice computer, my Entertainment Weekly here beside me, fresh big cup of water, decent co-workers (yes, I feel today that they are decent, semi-annoying, but decent), when I am home I am lost. I don't know that I am chronically depressed, but I have definitely been going through depression of varying grades, varying shapes and forms, versions. At times I've felt truly lost, without any direction at all, only remembering times when I felt alive, when I knew how to live, how to spend the day. A tremendous part of my psyche has given in to the idea that I have already been alive, that this is the rest of my life in front of me now, there is nothing left, but this. I've already loved and lost (which we know is better than never having loved at all), I've traveled to Europe, Mexico, the Caribbean and across the USA, I've moved around a bit, abode to abode, I've dabbled in creating, in the arts, in photography, in cooking, in writing, and now, it's over. I can no longer do much besides come here and go home, the occasional "that which must be done" in between. Shop for the essentials, take the most basic care of the cats, watch some television, surf around on the internet, write some email, read some diaries, and even that bores me lately. I wrote yesterday that the change in weather will no doubt awaken me, no doubt make me feel again, whatever it is that's left for me to feel. I know I won't be dying for several years at least, I feel I know this, so there must be some way for me to wake up and live again. But isn't it all over? Maybe this is some form of functional depression. No, I don't resign myself to my bed, I can wash my clothes, bathe, make myself presentable, feed myself and my cats, get to work on time, but whatever spark I may have ever had, whatever charges my soul, or gives life to these body parts, this mind, is temporarily gone from me. Then again, maybe all I need is some hockey in my life. Maybe once the season starts I'll be okay. I just need something to grab a hold of, to fix on, something to focus my attention, take me away from all I'm not doing, from the essential and mundane aspects of my life which only serve as reminders of what a slacker/procrastinator I am. Oh, in unrelated news, for the second time in as many nights I fell asleep watching a movie I would've preferred to stay awake for. Last night was "Le Notte di Cabiria" (Nights of Cabiria), a Fellini movie about a prostitute named Cabiria. It was getting hard to read the subtitles, white on black and white, lying horizontal, without my glasses, but mainly it was me worrying I'd be too tired today, so I let myself go to sleep. Too bad because it was good. It starred what's her name, Fellini's wife, right? Masani? She reminded me of Lucille Ball in her physical comedy, her facial expressions. And well, it was in Rome�ah, Roma! Made me want to go there again� Night before, it was "What Lies Beneath", which I had no interest in seeing until that night, really. Although the Michelle Pfeiffer character is a disgusting milquetoast (I abhor portrayals of weak women in films), she is so beautiful and the movie was actually suspenseful, in a predictable sort of way. I could not stay awake, but left it on, and of course I awoke several times to her screaming or arguing with Harrison Ford, thought how disgusted I'd be if I were watching it, how lucky I was to be sleeping instead, but still frustrated because I'd invested time watching the first half hour at least. Cost of the War in Iraq
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