I smoked a cigarette today.
Technically I quit a couple of years ago. I still have one on special occasions…special meaning when I’m in a social situation and everyone else is drinking or…whatever. It helps me feel less awkward, gives me something to do with my hands. Or on tattoo days, because something about the flood of endorphins makes those suckers taste so damn nice.
But today has just been a day of pressing sadness that feels so wholly empty, somehow, that when the dog started whimpering and whining at the door to ask for a walk, I dug out the battered pack that I keep around “for emergencies” and commenced a slow, meandering stroll around the yard. Mal was delighted, sniffing at bees and beetles, barking at the horses next door. (I had to explain to him, again, that they were nice horses and he shouldn’t bark at them just because they’re big; they whinnied and snuffled at the sound of my voice, blindfolded because, I guess, they have anxiety too.)
The guy I went to see about my medicine situation says I’m not depressed, but am, rather, dysthymic. So, like, depressed, but not as bad. So, like, depressed, but no one can tell.
Depressed, but smiling, laughing, going to work because I have to, taking a shower because I have to, even though as soon as I get home I take the dog out and crawl back into bed for as many hours as I can stand because sleep is quiet and feels like nothing and the bed is the perfect, comforting warmth and softness and nothing can get me there.
Dysthymic, so that I have to explain, again, that it’s still depression, just…different. Just…quieter. Just…not so’s you’d notice.
Just the dreaded “high functioning” version that means you feel like shit but because you’re still doing all the things and snap into social mode as convention demands (even though it leaves you drained and the whole time you want to scream or cry or just sleep) no one notices, and if you happen mention that you’re maybe not ok today they tell you to get to bed early and make sure you eat protein, and then happily chatter about how they’re going shopping while you take deep breaths and try not to cry or scream or run out the back door, grabbing your keys on the way, not even punching out.
Today, I smoked a cigarette, and even though I know it’s bad and a part of me rebelled at the slow death as it crept its way into the nooks and crannies of my lungs, I slowly inhaled and let the subtle tingle of nicotine fill the spaces hollowed out by inexplicable sadness. I watched the bees and the beetles. I listened to the horses.
