Nothing

Contrary to how it sounds, violent mood swings are not (necessarily) the way one would describe the sensation of being hit repeatedly over the head with a golf club made of anguish. Instead, "violent mood swings" is how one might describe the sensation of being hit directly in the life with a something made out of something. Unfortunately, a bout of mild depression has hindered me from allowing that last image to make any sort of sense in any coherent sort of manner... sort of.

It seems that, whilst I may be working, the idea of being paid in monthly instalments is taking its toll on my attitude towards being comfortable in this life. Keeping track of the hours I'm working and the pennies I'm earning is most deflating when I realise that I don't get to touch any of that money for up to four weeks depending on what day I look at the numbers and think about it. Sure, with each night that passes, the amount of time I have to wait lessens by one day. But the days seem to be travelling by so slowly I feel that science needs to take a long hard look at itself and redefine the duration of a day. Although with that in mind, it's unsure how long that long hard look will take exactly. If I were to guess, I'd say six days (or seventeen "new days") would be appropriate.

Even though the time passes so slowly, however, I still can't help wondering about the future. Actually. Scratch that. Some subconscious part of my mindspace can't help lazily drifting off towards damning thoughts about the future. Where am I going to be one year from now? What am I going to be doing? Where will I live? Who will I live with? What about three years from now? Or seven? Or twenty-three (in "new years" [actually, that sounds dangerously close to "New Year's" and could cause an awful lot of confusion {should I just end that whole lengthening of time periods thread of thought? «so many brackets!»}]). Ultimately, the general feeling generated by whatever evil portion of my brain does that travels throughout the rest of my very being is one of monotonous pointlessness.

There came a moment yesterday during which I stopped everything I was doing. For the record, "everything I was doing" was watching potatoes boil. I stood, one hand over my head, little feeling in my legs and the uncontrollable urge to lie in a foetal position on the cold, tiled floor of the kitchen, suck my thumb and cry. Fortunately, the oven timer went off to signal that the sausages were done and snapped me out of my regressive trance before my body hit the deck. You may be pleased to know the potatoes were mashed successfully and the sausages coated with onion gravy. However, the whole thing was rather bland and tasteless, much like life at this time.

I later went on to watch whatever episodes of Friends Comedy Central had thrown on. It happened to be one of the first season ones where Ross' gay, pregnant ex-wife gives birth to his child. During the episode, he, Phoebe and the other lesbian (the not-pregnant one) get locked in a supply cupboard and nearly miss the birth. During this mediocre plot point, Phoebe (who, for some reason, brought her guitar into the supply cupboard with her) begins to sing a maudlin, sombre ditty about how trapped they are and how their corpses would be discovered a day later. During this brief musical interlude, a tear rolled down my cheek and I genuinely despaired at the hypothetical sudden deaths of these characters in what was essentially a throwaway comic situation in a work of fiction. There's no real point to this, other than the fact that depression does weird things to a person.

I'm not going to sit here and claim I've been clinically depressed, by the way. I know that clinical depression is a truly awful thing, as opposed to that pansy meaning that's been tagged onto the word "depression" lately. There's a mighty difference between "got sick and can't go on holiday" depression and "just curled up in a ball cried on the kitchen floor and have no idea why" depression. The overwhelming sense of pointlessness, worthlessness, lifelessness and "ehh" is a truly awful set of feelings to experience. There's no strong sense of happiness or sadness, but instead nothingness. If it feels as though I'm not describing it very well, sorry, but it's hard to describe nothing.

Close your eyes. Go on close them.

Now think of nothing.

What?

Shit, well open your eyes again.

Read this first: when you close your eyes, think of nothing.

Now close your eyes.

And open them again. Hi, welcome back. Did you think of nothing? What did it look like? Dark? Black? Empty? Blank? Good, but you're wrong. Those are all still things. Darkness exists. Black is the absence of light and therefore has a definition as "something". Even the word "nothing" is something. See, it's hard to truly imagine nothing, and it's just as difficult to experience it. I suppose, in that sense, that feeling of "nothing" is in fact, thousands of things (might I refer you back to the many future questions my subconscious threw at me) bombarding you all at once. The senses can't handle it. Information overload. And as a result, that little part of your life that tells you to "just keep on going" suddenly stops talking and stares blankly out the window at a puddle or something.

I've experienced this before, I'm experiencing it now and I'll probably come into contact with it again in my life. I know people who've been affected by it much worse than myself and subsequently feel as though I have no right to complain about feeling shit on occasion. When it comes for me, it comes in concentrated bouts after steady healthy doses of what I'd like to refer to as "feeling normal". Feeling normal is much better than anything else in the world; way better than "just happiness" and "just sadness", and miles better than "just nothingness". Feeling normal is when I know I'm coping in life just fine. I cook meals, I shower regularly, I watch TV, I'm slightly addicted to virtual games, I read, I work. These are the things that let me know I'm a capable and fully functioning adult. And I am an adult, and I have a Nectar card to prove it.

Most of the time, I'm able to cope in this world using only the tools provided. But occasionally, I crash and hit a wall made out of nothing (or the meaning of "nothing" since that's actually something) and I struggle to carry on without somehow dragging myself out of it. And you can rest assured that next time that happens, it'll probably end up being a case of me writing all about it.