Ectoplasm
I’ve fallen from grace… what little brief grace I had for a short time last week that I can vaguely remember when I felt pretty happy and my little world seemed relatively good and decent and warm and light.
I knew it was coming, depression has been creeping in since the weekend, but I forgot my sleep pills last night… which technically aren’t sleep pills, they’re brain pills, so I still sleep without them, but I do this really weird constant REM sleep… I don’t cycle into deep sleep, so I spent about eight hours in this really exhausting, vaguely frantic, disruptive state… that I never fully wake up from, just break the surface of sleep about forty times in the night. Not fully awake, just… twilight.
And of course, today, I’m exhausted. And tonight my brain gave up the good fight, and depression is full on in the driver’s seat.
This isn’t limb heavy depression, though, this is a different flavor. This is more like some kind of a coating has settled over me… a film… that the rest of the world, I know, logically, is still the same as it was last week… everyone in my life is still the same person… my home is still warm and comforting and cozy… but this film… like… ectoplasm from Ghostbusters or something… it coats over me and makes everything seem dark and scary and foreign.
I have Sir and sub brother here, being loving and kind and exactly who they have always been, but this film makes them seem like strangers, makes them feel distance and cold, makes me feel lonely even in their arms.
Food that was delicious before, tastes dusty, strange smells make my house feel like a strangers live here. My bedroom, when I open the door, looks cold and dark, even with the lights on and the bed turned down and the pillows piled up for us to read together.
I closed the draped before it got dark tonight, because the world outside seems cold and dark (it was actually warm enough to be coatless today). My car seems threatening in the garage. The lights seem dimmer. Favorite TV shows seem sinister. Friends and family feel distant and disinterested.
Even the carved wooden animals by the TV seem to look at me with disdain.
And no one can break through this film.
Sir has been trying all evening. Sub brother, too. But that’s the ironic horror of it. The slime transforms everything they do, it transforms everything I see and touch and feel. It is on my skin, in my eyes, in my ears, in my mouth and nose and down my throat… it is coating me outside and in so nothing can reach me without touching it first… and being transformed.
Depression ectoplasm.
You May Also Like
