Wrob's Depression

There may be a tiny handful among you who have noted the batterings in my spirit these past couple years, and considered the possibility that i was willfully flirting with a clinical depression that once realized might be hard or impossible to control or escape.
To that i say...thanks for noticing.
A confluence of factors plunged me in this direction. I wished to experience my emotional response to this dysfunctional world without so many of the psychological walls of rationalization and denial we all build. As a result, i became increasingly unable to disconnect from all the physical and emotional isolation i've accumulated in this lifetime. I also desired to understand firsthand (in the hopes that such knowledge might make me a better writer, and person) those epidemic miseries (depression, suicide, violence, anti-sociality, stress-induced sickness, self-destructiveness, drug abuse) that my personality and life circumstances had heretofore allowed me to avoid.
In other words...good times.
That was irony.
It's occurred to me that this spirit quest might be, in some part small or large, just the playing out of an enormous conceit, and that my own pains are laughably incomparable to the hardcore real thing. I can only have faith in my motives, invite you to walk through wrob's depression, and judge for yourself.
Hm, if i ever discover a canyon, and am naming its trails and nooks, "wrob's depression" might make it onto the map.
The most stark, compelling symptom i can offer is the feeling of inertia. An inability to do things that are right there to be done. It becomes so easy to look up and realize weeks or months have gone by, with no forward movement. But as with other complex people, it's not so simple. That inertia gets jumbled up with an intentional philosophy, the refusal to run around on anybody's gerbil wheel. The avoidance of wasted time, even for a good cause. A refusal to measure my worth by values i perceive as shallow or contrary to human nature. It becomes so easy to let a day wile away with an hour or four of writing, an hour or two of music and reading, an hour of physical exertion, and two hours of relaxed meals accompanied by three hours of movies or sci fi. Are there more hours in a day? They drift away in the river of etcetera. If i could find a way to add an hour or two of fucking, i might come as close to grace as possible in a world that has none. I reject the notion that i should aspire to "more", particularly if my writing is of value to other humans (i believe helping others should be a part of everyone's day). But that all said...there are two projects i've been intending to get to for months, if not years: starting some form of public readings of my work, and producing one of my plays. In the case of the latter, i've finally had the financial wherewithal to do so for the better part of a year. In both cases, all i've been able to manage is a couple half-hearted half-efforts. I want to do both these things. Nor is it a matter of not knowing how, as i've done them (or things very much like them) in the past. It's just too easy to not do them. I think this sense of inertia particularly attaches to anything that's at all complicated or stressful. There are occasions when it begins to affect my writing, even. Mostly it doesn't, because my writing has become so essential to my identity that, if a string of unproductive days goes by, it begins to feel like i don't exist. Yet i don't think there's any aspect of my life that isn't touched by this inertia, at least in some small way.
Which is not to say that depression is joyless. There are moments (not nearly enough) when i experience the fullness of laughter (not, i hope, the manic kind).
Are there thoughts of suicide in Wrob's Depression? Yes. From time to time, i wrap my mind around initiating the release of death. It seems, frankly, a sane reaction to this world we've created. Although these thoughts are idle, their existence is significant, as ANY thought resembling suicide was utterly alien to me before the past couple years.
Violence? Even in the midst of all this gnawing emptiness, i can honestly say i've had no hurtful thoughts toward any other living creature. I'm probably just not getting out enough.
Joking aside, perhaps i'm NOT getting out so much, because i've also been living some very distinct anti-social feelings. A part of me cringes when the phone rings. "Friendly" voices are as unwelcome as any other. I feel an aversion to Facebook, and rush to get off it "ASAP LOL" when some alert calls me there, because that instant message window is open, and ANYONE could start a chat with me. Go away, go away, would you all just GO AWAY?!?!
Stress/openness-induced sickness? Check. Earlier this year, i began to feel sick in my stomach while reading a book about infant genital mutilation. I had to stop, and it took weeks before that sickened feeling (the precursor of ulcers) went away. It was months before i could pick up the book again. My emotions are so close to the surface, that being near two people who raise their voices to each other can make me feel sick. I avoid contentiousness (the only exception being this site, where there are occasional reports of inflammatory prose).
As for self-destructiveness, that particular treat hasn't found me...so i got that goin' for me.
This society is going to have to embrace a broader definition of "drug abuse". Science is discovering that there are many activities which stimulate the production of chemicals in the brain (endorphins, foremost) that induce euphoria, relieve pain, and provide a host of other effects that we associate with recreational drugs. Among these activities are music, exercise, religion, movies/shows/books, humor, and of course sex (or a good hug). We all use these things to escape. Take a look at that list of my daily activities, to spot which "drugs" i've been using hardest. I even experimented with spectator sports, following a basketball team through this recent season and playoffs, feeling the reactions inside me as i "identified" with the highs and lows on the court. My most intense drug experience resulted from my investigative series on prostitution. The daily anticipation of intimacies with the enormous variety of prostitutes i profiled was in many ways as real to me as the actual thing (on a chemical level, brains don't know the difference between fantasy and reality). Once it became reality, the nuru massage i received exploded my brain with bliss that lasted for days. It took an effort of will to not act recklessly to get those feelings again - when the series of articles was over, i invented reasons to write further articles, even if only to experience the "search" once again. I feel horrible sympathy for addicts who get hooked on something more powerful than fantasy or touch. Resisting physical intimacy on demand was so demanding, i understood how virtually impossible it would be to walk away from the more intense experiences addicts fall prey to. And i felt a twinge of that which all addicts eventually feel, the realization that taking more and more makes you feel less and less. Alcoholics reach a point when they can't get drunk when they're drinking, and can't get sober when they're not. I experienced a taste of that when the ecstatic anticipation of human touch was suddenly poisoned by the thought of the emotional emptiness of loveless loving.
Okay, pull yourself out of Wrob's Depression now. Dust yourself off.
Pretty fucking miserable, huh?
And guess what?
I'm still better off than any number of people you'll meet tomorrow. Maybe you'll see it when you look in their eyes.
Maybe they'll see it when they look in yours.