makers of misery

i haven't done much writing lately.

at least, not as much as i'd like to. i wish to write about black history month, or executive dysfunction, or the struggles of being neurodivergent in a society that doesn't cater to me. i wish to write about so many things, and yet i cannot connect the thoughts in my head to the tips of my fingers.

they call it "functioning depression". most days i feel as though i am hardly "functioning" at all.

& what does it mean to "function", anyway? the word makes it sound like we are machines: doing tasks in the way we were programmed, with no sense of self to understand how or why. maybe that's what i am. a machine. a two-dimensional robot, of some kind, made and programmed by the hands of an engineer.

i live life separate from my body. i live life behind a shroud of fog, watching my body move without controlling it, wondering when i became so weak. i try to speak, but i cannot speak at all.

my neurotypical mother asked why i don't do my dishes after every meal. i said sometimes I don't even have the energy to make dinner. she said you're a young parent, you should have the energy. & if only should was enough to make it so. some days, i barely have the energy to exist at all.

i plan out plot-lines to the nth degree, seldom finding the motivation to write them out. i function with a battery, and my battery dies mid-task, or mid-conversation, or mid-idea. i wish i wasn’t so tired all the time, or that i wasn’t constantly overstimulated by the stupidest things, or that having a simple conversation just came naturally. i wish i could leave my house and feel like a human.

& it's hard to explain what's wrong with me. i feel i have been broken for so long that i'm unfixable. sometimes i am toxic without meaning to be. sometimes i refuse to speak my mind and then resent people when they can't read it.

it's hard to explain what depersonalisation feels like to those who haven't experienced it. i have felt unreal for so long that i sometimes question whether i exist at all.

some days, i wish i lived in a bubble: completely isolated from the outside world, with nothing and nobody except myself, my child, and my cats. i don't feel despair about the world anymore. i don't feel anger or sadness or disgust. there's just this constant cloud of apathy that follows me everywhere.

but i am angry. i am angry that this is the society we live in: where money matters more than people, and marginalized groups are treated as filth, and governments care more about protecting their own people than taking care of those they govern, and people live their lives without a single shred of empathy for anyone else. i am angry, and i'm tired of being angry.

and what am i doing with my life?

i have no career or driver’s license or accomplishments. all i have is crippling debt and exhaustion. i turned thirty last month. what did i do this year? what did i do for the past ten years?

it’s like watching a movie of someone else’s life. i woke up one day and i was twenty five.

i'll wake up tomorrow and i’ll be forty.