People do things. I don't.

I watch TV. I see people doing things. I read blogs. I read about people doing things. I read comics. Even fictional people are doing things. I don't do anything. I am paralyzed. I am numb. I feel trapped in my own body. I feel stuck in my own thoughts. Some days, I don't even have the energy to go online and talk to friends, much less actually meet them in person. I strike up potential friendships, then never follow through. I pet my cats, a lot. They love me. I spend a lot of time with my husband. He loves me, but I know it hurts him to see me like this. It hurts me to see me like this. And all the pills, all the therapy sessions, right now, they seem like they do nothing to help. I just don't have the spark of energy to break through it. During the day, I wait for night. At night, I feel better, but I still don't do anything. What's wrong with me?

I want to do things. I want to go out with friends. I want to do yoga. I want to go out on my own, like I used to, spend hours at the coffee shop drawing or writing. I want to go to the mall, hike in the woods, or explore parts of town I've never been to. I want to go on midnight adventures with new friends. I want to draw more, and make things, and feel accomplished. I know I am the only thing standing in my way, and that is what hurts the most. I feel broken. I can't even make good on promises I've made to do work for friends, even with the prospect of pay. I am dreading the convention next week, even though it is normally something I look forward to all year long. I am dreading anything that takes me out of the safety of my home, and yet I can't stand being here.

It takes an enormous amount of effort to get up, to take a shower, to get dressed. I don't do any of those things every day. Some days, I don't get up at all. Some days, I am glued to the sofa. Like today. I managed to go out, for a little while. Matt bought me some "new to me" shirts at a thrift store, ones that fit, so I feel like I have some clothes I'm not uncomfortably stuffing myself into.

I was supposed to be with Matt in Pittsburgh today for a baby shower. I was supposed to be meeting new friends. I wanted to look forward to it. Instead, I dreaded it all week. Right now, on the other side of the wall, in the next apartment over, a couple are having a birthday party for their two-year-old daughter. A couple of months ago, this would have excited me. I'd have asked to join in. I wanted a baby, didn't I? I still want a baby. Or do I? I can't be sure. I think now that the whole "I want a baby" thing was some kind of manic episode, and I feel ashamed by it. I have gone back to thinking that I can't possibly take care of a child. Look at me. I can't even take care of myself. I am a mess. Again.

I need to call my gynecologist, to talk about an IUD. I need to start shopping around for a new therapist, because I can't go this alone, and it isn't fair to expect Matt to take on my illness by himself. I need to get that work done for my friend, but I just can't wrap my head around it, and I think I'm going to have to bail on him, because my brain just can't handle it. I need to reclaim my room, which is now littered with clothes, bed unmade, altar neglected. I feel like I want to rearrange everything. Clean everything out. Like I need to do spring cleaning in my head.

I look back at some of my entries, and it seems like I've made progress- yet, I am still fighting the same old battles. I still can't seem to get better for long. I'm backsliding, and I don't know what to do. I just want to be some kind of normal. Well, normal for me. I hate that even my good feelings are part of my pathology. "Oh, that burst of creativity you had? It was just manic. It wasn't real." Seems like the only thing that is "real" is my depression, and the manic stuff is always fleeting and unsustainable. Why can't it be the other way around? Why can't my depression be the part that isn't real?

I'm tired and I want to take a nap. Matt wants to help me clean my room, and I feel guilty for even asking, even though he is completely willing and able to help me. I feel like a little kid who needs constant supervision. "Clean your room and we'll go out for ice cream." Except, you know, I don't even want to go out.

Sick of this shit. So sick of it.

Reclaim my space. Get my physical belongings in order. Recreate a haven for myself. Maybe that will help. Now if I could just get off my ass.