Every day has been a low-spoon sort of day, as I work my way back up from my depression and fight to get back to normal. I’m almost back to where I need to be on paperwork, and got everything else caught up at work. I come home exhausted, and often I cry when I get home and it’s safe to do so. I’m scared of what the next pay period will bring, I’m scared of losing my job, I’m scared of myself. I think about other people’s suggestions of getting involved, finding things to do that I find joy in, and I finally realized why I am reluctant to go, even if it would make me happy when I am well:
It’s more people to disappoint.
I have a pathological fear of disappointing anyone. My illness is torture because commitments I make when I am well, often are too much for me when I’m not, so I isolate and withdraw, because I am horrified of the idea that I won’t be able to do something, and I will disappoint others who are counting on me.
I want to join a women’s chorus. What if there is a concert and I have a solo, or something, and I become too ill? I want to work for the Renaissance Faire, but seven days of work in a week would kill me, even if some of it is silly goofing off in the woods. Not going every single day makes me feel like a failure, even though I am paying to go hang out. I want to do more jewelry, maybe start my own business, but I don’t know how well that’ll work once my creativity again becomes blocked by depression.
I am one big walking failure and disappointment, just waiting to disappoint and fail everyone I love, am friends with, am casual acquaintances with, peripherally know because we see each other at Kroger occasionally…
This is how my mind works, and I hate it.