antisnotabug: (Default)
Ant ([personal profile] antisnotabug) wrote2017-02-26 02:23 am

(no subject)

I am a functioning adult. I know right, I don't believe it either. But at the end of the day, I am. I live in an apartment. A decent one, even! I am surviving in a major city. I am holding down a job. I maintain strong relationships with my friends. I am making strides to improve my functionality in adult society. I can navigate the public transportation system and find my way in the world. (Maybe that's weird to point out but jfc I know a lot of people who can't so I'm counting it.) I pay bills and feed myself and vote. I'm doing it. I'm being what I've always wanted to be, a grown up who makes my own choices and takes care of my own damn self.

I kind of hate that.

Because when I was kid, dreaming about living in my own space and making my own money and doing whatever I wanted because no one could judge me for it, I never considered the fact that I could also be dealing with rampant depression and anxiety. I mean, I had shades of those even as a kid, but I didn't really know at the time. I thought depression was cutting yourself and I thought anxiety was... you know, actually, I wasn't even aware anxiety was a thing. I assumed that once I was doing all that adult stuff, I'd be happy. I would have found my meaning. And I'm not, and I haven't. I understand part of that is just growing up and realizing that things don't usually play out the way you think they will. But that isn't the whole thing.

There's another part. There's a part where... that became everything to me. Everything. I think somewhere, me the human being got set aside for me the Adult. My depression was at its worst when I dropped out of college, and I was living at home with no income. I felt like a failure and a fucking joke. It was the worst feeling in the world for me. It was consuming. I couldn't fight it, so I learned to live with it. The world won't stop for me, so I figured out ways to keep going, even though I didn't want to, and I had no faith in the idea that my work would actually get me somewhere. I had to try, right? Or else I might as well be dead, and while I'm terrified of failure, the only thing that scares me more is being dead. So I did it anyway. I applied to jobs and went to interviews when I thought it was pointless, and later I went to work even though I was making such a small amount of money that it made no difference. I learned how to not need hope.

I'm really unhappy right now. Not depressed, at least not like I was then. Now there's a new beast sitting on my chest, and it doesn't have a name. It's composed of knives and tightly wound wires, ready to snap at a moment's notice with little to no provocation. It's like a sharp, high violin note is being played right next to my ear, and the note refuses to end. And these feelings, they do not matter, because they do not stop me. I can pull myself out of bed to go to work. I can sleep for around 6 hours a night. I can eat. I can do what I need to function, and for me the Adult, that's what matters. The rest of it is luxury, meant for stronger, smarter people. As long as I can keep fooling people into thinking I'm a functional specimen, than I'm doing what I need to do. Sometimes, I wish I would break. I wish some part of the machine would fall off with a clatter and then, then, I could rebuild from the ground up. But that won't happen. I'm not built to let that happen. I don't know how to fix me the human being.