The Importance of Hope

I don’t feel like I’ve been depressed lately - and certainly, you’d think I’d be able to tell whether I am or am not feeling down. I dealt with depression a lot as a teenager, enough at least that a certain cycle become very recognizable to me, and I would know a few days ahead of time if I was falling into a serious funk.

The world would lose it’s shine, first off. Just small things, like food - even food I really like - not tasting right, mostly sort of ’blah’ or just not good. I’d retreat without realizing it from activities that I love, like listening to music, reading, creating art. My body would ache, I’d maybe feel like I had the flu, and then for several days - maybe weeks or months - I’d feel terrible. As though there was no point in going on.

Obviously, I made it through those years - I’m here now, after all. 

With that in mind, I’d like to believe I’d be able to tell the difference between what’s just kind of a ‘blah’ feeling and genuine depression: but here I am, questioning just what it is that’s making me view the world so cynically these days.

In some ways, I feel sort of like maybe I’ve fallen unexpectedly into a fugue, the likes of which I haven’t seen since the days when I still kept half my most used things in a backpack that weighed more than most small children, and a metal locker in a hallway with hundreds of others just like it. Though the past year has been one of mostly peace and self-exploration, I’m become so nervous about the whole world, politics, and people in general. The more I learn about the world around me, the less certain I am that it’s a world worth living in overall. Still, something won’t let me give up on it.

Excuse the analogy, but I guess it’s because I’m sort of like a domestic rat.