The words have been tumbling around in my head for months. Grasping at one, I would try it on only to toss it back into the jumble of depression descriptors. Suicidal does not fit, neither do hopeless nor a sense of despair. Ennui and weltschmerz are two of my favorites, but they still don’t feel right. As I attempted to describe my state of mind, my therapist kept saying “That’s depression.” Well, of course it is, but it really doesn’t describe what I’m feeling. I am in love with words, and as I am not a gifted artist I choose to paint and draw with language. I require the correct word, like a painter requires the correct hue.
Dying doesn’t feel like the answer, but I’m tired of living. Giving up is not an option, but I’m tired of trying. She asked me if I was opposed to going back on medication, and after giving it a bit of thought I said “I suppose I would if I knew it would work. Otherwise, I’ll just keep plodding along.”
“Ah, you are resigned.” Yes, that’s it.