In a therapy session a few weeks ago, Dr T seemed genuinely surprised when I said I still consider myself to be suffering from depression. At the time, I reeled from it in surprise that we were so out of touch, but actually it raises some important questions about progress.
I DO consider myself depressed. Call it dysthymia again if you want to give it a label. Life isn’t great, or good – the components are there (e.g. a steady job, accommodation), but there’s no real happiness. No joy of living. I wouldn’t say I’m overly sad, or angry, or anything particularly negative. I guess it’s some kind of emotional void. I can tick over like this, and days, then years will pass without comment.
I don’t connect with people. I’ve gradually lost most of my friends, and I don’t find I have the motivation to actively pursue the friendships I have left. I care about my family, some old friends, and some work colleagues, but I don’t go out of my way to see them, and social situations are often a chore.
Therapy is flat again – in the last session I sat there and thought to myself ‘Actually, why are we here, sitting in silence, achieving nothing…maybe I should quit.’ I’m lying. It was the session before last. I cancelled my last session due to lack of motivation to go, with a sprinkling of physical illness.
I could get a different job. Move to a different city, maybe even a different country. Join a dating site and look for love. Try out some new hobbies. Find a bar, pick up some random guy. But what’s the point? The apathy is potent, so why risk rocking this numbing equilibrium I’ve got going on?
To be clear, I’m not asking for help. I have no right to, if I know I don’t have the drive to follow it through. This is more observation than anything else.