I am a Delicata Squash.

I mean "a" as in a very specific one. It's in pieces in a few plastic grocery bags, all shoved into one grocery bag, which was then hastily jammed into the trash can in the kitchen.

This was after a very loud, very tearful, quite honest and also funny confession that I was extraordinarily depressed.

So depressed, I told my shocked roommate [who, though bad at hiding reaction, was actually taking it fairly well], that when I discovered the squash was rotting from the inside outward I started crying.

I saw the rotten insides of a squash and I started crying like a five year old missing their mother.

It wasn't really about the squash.

I get a produce delivery now and then because it can be difficult for me to go to the store .The produce delivery provides options that are so much better in variety and [usually] quality.  I was so excited about this squash. This delicata squash. I had never had one before.

Most of my other delivered produce was gone and I hadn't eaten much the past few days. I just wasn't that interested. I wasn't feeling up to making dinner but then I thought of the squash and I actually wanted to try.

I started thawing chicken and smelled one end of the squash. It smelled amazing- sort of sweet and buttery.

I started cutting it and then noticed toward the other end it  had a small bruise. I carved that bit out and kept cutting.

Then suddenly it was brown inside.
Clearly it was rotten, so I split it down the middle.

Most of it, no all- just completely ruined.

I was so mad, so frustrated. It wasn't just this squash- this promise of something, this ONE nice thing I had wanted.

This very simple thing had been able to motivate me into actually eating, and pushing through this damn desperation I have been feeling- past the horrible understanding of why people want to die all the time; past the idea that I will always be in pain; past the thought that I will never ever finish school or work again; that i will never be what I once was.

It was not just this one thing gone wrong, however.
It was that this very simple thing was me, too.

I am a delicata squash.  I am rotting from the inside out.

I am very seriously, very desperately depressed. I verge on the edge of suicidal fairly often but those around me have little to no idea. The reason being that I absolutely HAVE to laugh my way through life. If I did not I would simply make the leap straight into suicidal and beyond. I would be no more.

Very few people understand this. They can not comprehend how the idea of death can hang around ones head while watching Spongebob daily. They also don't understand that because I actually make it out of bed it does not mean it is easy and it does not mean I am "ok".

There is no winning- if I were to actually stay in bed, people would say that is the reason I am depressed. If I fight with all I have to get out of bed, take a shower, even do some damn productive thing? There is this assumption, even suspicion, that I am not actually depressed.

I have to say... that cuts so deep.

Every step, every breath, every blink can be a struggle. I find myself reaching far beyond that a lot of the time. If I didn't I would rot completely into goo. Maybe I'd disappear into the sliver between the sink and the counter. No one would ever find me.

Honestly I am reaching the end of my rope.

Pain piled on top of forced non-productivity on top of frustration on top of medication side effects [from meds that don't end up helping] on top of loss on top of sorrow- for what I used to be and what I'll likely never be again.

If things don't change soon I quite literally have no idea what I will do.
That is no kind of threat.
I simply don't know.

I don't know how to fix that.

1 comment:

  1. "If I fight with all I have to get out of bed, take a shower, even do some damn productive thing? There is this assumption, even suspicion, that I am not actually depressed."

    This resonates with me. Fuck, I need a blog. Anyway. I'm actually more functional by conventional means than I ever have been in my life. It comes at a price. The price is generally my sanity, my sense of well being, my understanding of why I'm even fucking doing this shit in the first place. But if I stop? Well, I can't. But If I could, I don't know that it gets better. Maybe it does. I don't know. Right now, it all feels like a zero sum game.


Recommended Post Slide Out For Blogger