The Revolution Will be Televised

TL;DR: Depression is a bastard.

My brain chemistry is telling me I need to apologise to people for things I did five or more years ago, things that they may not remember, tiny and inconsequential. Not the big things. I felt the need to apologise to Jane not for the stuff that lead up to the breakup, but for an off-handed comment made in about 2008. Not even a negative comment, but one in which I wasn’t supportive enough.

This time, taken from the context of that comment, a context that I won’t share, I’m back to what is almost my “normal” expression of depression. That I’m a child who was told one day “you are a grown-up now, you have to be more mature”, without any chance to work out a transition. That so much of my life outside of work—of what I like to do rather than what I have to do—is centred on childish bullshit, on video games and lego and animated robots.

When I was a kid, the thing guaranteed to get me throwing punches—apart from “being my brother”—was to accuse me of being a baby about something. The implication (or outright statement) that I was a selfish brat, too immature to think of other people, one small step away from throwing a tantrum because I didn’t get my own way.

Now, it’s much the same thing but with a broader span that insults me. The accusation of immaturity hurts like hell, and it’s magnified when it’s my own brain chemistry throwing it at me. It tells me I should have life goals, that I should spend time working towards them. It tells me that I should grow up and start gardening (because that’s the only real hobby my parents have) instead of wasting my time with things that don’t matter; things that don’t have any lasting impact. It demonstrates the divide between knowledge and belief: I know it is wrong, but right now I don’t believe that it is.

I’ll get over it. I always do. I am one high-functioning motherfucker. But it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with in the meantime.