Asleep. A fallen redwood in a damp forest. Immoveable. Unable to be roused or awakened. A ringing begins in the distance, permeating the fog sitting heavily like a brick upon the fallen tree. The arrhythmic ringing crescendos to deafening timbres. The world grasps me firmly and draws me to reality. The accosting arrhythmia is my alarm clock beckoning me to join the world of the living. I politely decline and slip back into my alternate reality. Depression is an ugly friend – bossy, controlling, narcissistic – and it has its hold on me.
Depression inertia is trying to move a concrete wall with simple tethers, or to wander through a thick fog, so dense each step requires the strength and agility of a Roman gladiator. Or may it be likened unto an attempt to drag oneself through a pool of quicksand, ever hoping to reach the elusive reward resting on the far bank of the pit that controls life and livelihood. Sleep is ever-so-enticing when in the throes of inertia, though it has a dark side. It masks itself with promises that if you sleep just one more hour, your despair and sorrows will dissipate. You will join the world of the active with joviality and effervescence, but, in truth, it speaks lies. Suckle just enough of the nourishment sleep has to offer, but inebriation is a sly devil. With each extra ten-minute snooze, a little vitality is siphoned from your energy stores, supporting the demons that keep you trapped in the world of inertia. Sleep is restorative and enriching, but when it becomes the warden, it is quite adept at constructing an impenetrable prison.
I have fallen into a depression, and inertia has hijacked my emotions and motivations. I sleep for hours and hours, not rising until afternoon. Each time I reset the alarm clock, it gives me hope that in ten to twenty minutes I will be ready to face the world, but depression fibs. Giving into the inertia guarantees that I will never be able to face the world. Once awake I move from place to place, going through the motions, but exist solely behind the facade of a plaster mask. The words in my books are jumbled, seemingly constructed into a language written and understood singularly by depression. My mind perseverates on suicide as tears flow down my cheeks like water seeping from freshly broken dams. I know I must move. I must. But dear inertia, you are so good at what you do. I am bonded, shackled, wed to psychiatric treatments that cannot reach you, so I must sit. Wrestle with my roped wrists and ankles, shake myself free. I will not fight dirty. We will not mud wrestle. Rather I shall rise above you, take the higher ground. Stumble and stutter in my tracks. I dare you to reach me as I soar. I will crack your narcissism with my disregard for your hostage tactics. Yes, I am under your spell, but I am beckoned for a higher purpose. Game on?