When I hit a row of days when I don’t want to go anywhere, do anything, or talk to anyone, I become worried.
I am really hard on myself. I should be in a good mood, motivated to do things, cordial to other people, and not crawl into my own little world.
Maybe the antidepressants are starting to falter. Again.
I struggle to dig myself out of that hole, just so I can reassure myself that the medication is still working. I am human after all, and life is difficult. It’s not easy being a happy camper when I don’t feel well, which is about 97.5% of the time.
When I begin the cycle of isolating, I do this thing that might seem disturbing to some people.
I think about wanting to die.
If the idea doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest, I deem myself good to go.
If the idea does appeal to me, then I am in trouble.
I call this “The Suicide Test.” I even told my therapist about it. She liked the idea.
“I have to stay forever diligent,” I explained.
I also have to stay honest, and never stop talking about it even though it often makes people uneasy.
No matter how well a medication works, I will always have a certain melancholy. It’s part of my genetic code. It makes me who I am. I need to accept this fate. It’s the reason why I can spend hours reading about morbid things, then go take a nap.
Maybe I am somehow related to Edgar Allen Poe. I don’t know of any other family member who is like me.
It’s okay to hide away from the world for a few days.
Life is difficult.
But I passed the suicide test. As far as I am concerned, I am golden.