Reading is my only escape and writing is my only reprieve. Too bad I do most of my writing in my head at work when I don't have access to my laptop. I'm stuck listening to old people go on tirades about expired coupons while I eloquently hash out my depression in my head, lamenting over my sadness in between nods of false sympathy over replaced hips and flaccid dicks. I try to remember the sentences I write in my head while arthritic hands with swollen knobs for knuckles peck away at smart phones, trying to wrestle proof of a discount out of their electronic mail accounts. "You should see my grandson with this thing! He would know exactly where to find the coupon!"
It's the only part of my day I actually get enjoyment out of, even if it's a tiny tick of the smallest amount of serotonin, it's still something.
I enjoy it when the dustier generations get angry at the card machine, screaming at it when it's time to insert a chip instead of swipe or sign instead of entering a pin. They'll yell about how each machine is different and there should be a universal machine that every establishment uses. I want to question how that fits into their over patriotic sense of capitalism and see them squirm, a generation scarred by the cold war with boogie men in the form of words like "socialism," but that wouldn't be a decent thing to do. I don't want to actively cause frustration for these people, I just want to enjoy the scenarios that they create for themselves.
This used to annoy me, older people yelling at me for discounts and not understanding how technology works, just as recently as two weeks ago, but in my depression I delight in the small discomforts of others. It means they're just as miserable as I am but the difference is that I have a chemical imbalance and they're just afraid of change and refuse to adapt. I'll come out of this, they'll be miserable until the day they die.
I've made up my mind that when I'm 65 years old and my credit card number is circulating through my blood stream in the form of some kind of nano bot, I'll gladly figure out the best way to lay my skull on the counter in order for the sales person to scan my retinas to pay for my vitamins.
My depression doesn't care what I say to people and it's a nice vacation from the obligation of caring about everything. I'm a victim of too much empathy most of the time so walking around with nothing to offer but apathy is relaxing. When asked whether I like someone's new shirt or their new makeup I would normally try hard to come up with a compliment I truly mean, even if I have to dig around for it. It's a good way to rewrite my brain to seek positive pathways instead of the negative ones it's original programming was designed for. But now I don't care. Ask me how I feel about anything and I wont have any negative or positive brain responses, I'll just look at you like I'm waiting for you to leave the room or for you to stop breathing. You could wear a trash bag and paint your ass hole with a half gallon of glitter and I would feel the same way about that as I would if you had a heart attack and dropped dead on the spot.
I wouldn't feel anything. I don't wish heart attacks or glittery ass holes on anyone but if they happened I'm sad to say I wouldn't feel one way or the other about it in my current state.
My apathy is like a poison and not only am I affected but it spreads to those around me. I don't have to say or do anything to bring my darkness into a room or conversation. So naturally I avoid people in this state but that isn't so easy when you're usually a highly social person who works retail and talks to just about everyone. My mom used to tell me that when I was a kid I would run around and tell strangers, "Hi! I'm a Flintstone's kid!" because of the vitamin commercials in the 80's. Anyone and everyone, my mom tells me. I would run my mouth and befriend any adult, kid, or dog that would let me talk at them for more than a couple of seconds. I grew up to still be that Flintstone's kid, social and always willing to make a new friend, but when the depression gets a hold of me I leave everyone on read and don't have the energy to even decline generous offers like people coming over to keep me company, clean, or cook me a decent meal instead of eating the dried out protein bars I cry into at night.
I may have been a Flintstone's kid but I grew up to be bipolar's adult. There's no catchy advertisement for that.
Hopefully this bout won't last long. The previous episode was about 3 months in length with me waking up one day finally deciding to kill myself and the next hour being just fine. Instead of planning to kill myself this time I'll just revel in the small discomforts of a generation of technology illiterate mummies, while selling them vitamins.
I guess in a strange way I still am the Flintstone's kid, the only difference is there's paycheck in it for me now.
