Existential Boredom

I’m not as intensely suicidal anymore, but I really just don’t see the point of being alive.

Since the election, I have nothing to do with my time.  Literally all I do is sit in bed all day and waste time on my computer.  There is no point to my existence.

Nothing holds my attention.  I try to knit, to watch Netflix, to read, to write.  Nothing interests me.  I force myself to do it, but that doesn’t work for very long, and there are so many hours to fill.

And I hurt.  I don’t know what it is with the roving joint pains–one joint will hurt badly for weeks or sometimes months, and then for no reason that pain will stop.  Soon it starts back up in a different joint.  Right now it’s my left wrist again.  I have a brace from when I sprained my wrist doing kung fu, and it helps some…but it makes it hard to type or knit.  And my belly hurts.  I think I might be heading into another UC flare, which is awesome, especially since I might have to come off the 6-MP soon.  I’ve spent the last two weeks telling myself it was just PMS-related mini-flare symptoms, but since my period hasn’t happened, I don’t think I can blame PMS.  Oh, and it’s IBD Awareness Week, so clearly my body has impeccable timing and a fucked-up sense of humor.

I barely have an appetite, either.  I mean, I get hungry, but I don’t eat for hours because I just don’t care enough to get food.  C made me a gluten-free vegan cheesecake a week ago.  Ordinarily I’d have eaten the whole thing in about two days (no judging), but I’ve still got some left over.  I’ve got a big container of Thanksgiving leftovers, too.  They’re good, but I haven’t touched them.  Oh, and there’s also lentil soup C made.  It’s not even that I’m too tired/weak to prepare anything–literally all I’d have to do was take them out of the refrigerator and microwave them.  But I just don’t care enough.

I’d fooled myself into thinking the weakness was getting at least a little better, but it turns out I only thought it was better because I didn’t do anything beyond sitting in bed and getting up to use the bathroom.  Yesterday I cleaned my microwave.  It took all of five minutes, and that’s a generous estimate.  But then I couldn’t stand up, collapsed on the kitchen floor, and had to crawl back to my bed.  How am I supposed to have ANY quality of life when I can’t even stand for five minutes?  I’m terrified that whatever’s going on is getting worse.  I still haven’t had any luck reaching my gastroenterologist for a referral to a neurologist.  I might ask C to see if my ex-nurse, S, can make some calls.  Often medical professionals get a much better response than patients–sad but true.

I’m just so tired of existing like this.  There’s no light.  I don’t feel an immediate need to kill myself, but I can’t just keep living like this, either.  I want to feel like there’s some meaning, but I can’t see anything in this fog.

Blah

I feel crappy.

No particular reason.  Nothing’s really been happening, not anything new.  But depression has been creeping up on me.

I feel very alone and disconnected.  I hardly ever leave the house–I don’t really have anywhere to go.  Most days I don’t even bother putting on real clothes or brushing my hair because no one’s going to see me anyway.  I just sit at home and watch Netflix, which doesn’t really interest me but is at least something to do.

Everything just feels so flat and empty.  I have no friends.  I have no interests.  Most days I don’t even talk to anyone.  I don’t create anything; I can’t write anymore, haven’t been able to for years and years.  Something inside me is just dead.

And yet I’m here; what choice do I have?  I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live like this anymore.  But how do I get out of this place?  Meds don’t work.  Doing things doesn’t help, and even if it did, I can’t get anywhere because the bus drivers have now decided they won’t stop at my street.  (The nearest stops are each 3/4 of a mile from my street on a very busy street with no shoulder to walk on, and I’m often not physically capable of walking that far even if it weren’t life-threateningly dangerous.)  There’s nobody I can talk to about this stuff because I can’t even find a therapist who isn’t scared of me, let alone a friend.  Let that sink in: I can’t even find someone willing to listen to me for money.

I honestly don’t know what to do.  I wish I could just sleep all the time because there’s no point to being awake, but I never sleep much in the summer.  I can’t seem to see any way out of this depression and anhedonia and loneliness and nothingness.