and here I am

another (last?) note on depression and self-sabotage

I spent 2024 in a state of petrified incompetence. 

Is delusion protective? When I divorced, I sincerely believed I would turn into someone I have never been. I thought I would marry again very quickly. And I believed that I would become a prolific and celebrated writer. An early riser, perhaps the type of woman who attends workout classes before nine am. A well groomed thirty-something hosting dinner parties in a pre-war apartment with a legal via grandfather clause fireplace always burning. Homemade bread. It’s no trouble really, anyone could do it. My greatest delusion was believing in myself as I was without any consideration or focus on learning lessons or self-improvement. I only had the courage to start over again as a single woman because I believed that I would “fix” everything very quickly, that the actual divorce would be my lowest moment and that the time after would bring only joy. 

Instead, I spent most of 2024 in bed. Horrifically depressed and unsure how to do anything but cry and worry. I called my friends and threatened to kill myself, occasionally emailing half baked wills to especially close confidants. These were mostly focused on the details of my hypothetical funeral. No black!!! Have everyone wear light blues unless it is in the winter, then jewel tones. Heavy on the greenery and light on the white florals, seasonal color. I have no preference about cremation, I’ll be dead. I tried to walk. I tried to write. I tried to focus on the fact that I have the privilege of time to figure things out and remind myself that my funds are not unlimited and that I must work. And yet I could not work. Because my creativity dried up, because I was scared to write too much and scared to write too little. Because I was sure I was an alcoholic and then sure that I wasn’t and then positive it does not matter as I enjoy not drinking, and then convinced I was an alcoholic again and then convinced I wasn’t. (Whether or not I am an addict has taken up the largest share of my brainpower.) Because it occurred to me only to write essays about men who have hit me, or men I could not stand, or men who did not love me back. Because I was worried about how those essays would come across. Because the fear of saying something that I cannot unsay became so deeply ingrained in me and then I could only write things so surface level they were meaningless. Because everything felt like an excuse. Because I do not believe in excuses. Because too much time had passed and I felt pressure to write something more profound than I am capable of writing. Because there is no reason I should have taken so much time to “work on myself”. Because I was no longer sad. Because I was only numb. Because I once found myself speeding toward a tree in my old jeep and then breaking very quickly when I realized what I was doing. Because I don’t want to die, I just want to feel. Because, because, because. 

I only had the courage to start over again as a single woman because I believed that I would “fix” everything very quickly. 

That isn’t true. 

I only had the courage to start over again as a single woman because I believe that I would very quickly find another man who would “fix” everything for me.