How do you describe a flavour that has no taste?

There are no words to describe this heavy pain that I am carrying. It is intangible. It is invisible. It has no flavour, no smell, no colour. Even I cannot see it. But I know that it is there. Sitting heavily on my chest.

Everything seems fine. I seem fine. I feel fine. But then, suddenly, I’m not fine anymore – I’m insane. I’m about to burst, I can’t bear it another moment. And then, just as quickly as it came, I’m fine again.

Insight is an interesting thing. I take some comfort in the memory that it will pass, but there is still fear in the knowledge that it is sure to come back. I can’t quite describe what ‘it’ is right now. It is not the overt tears and overwhelming emotions that it used to be.

Now it is just a very quiet, subtle death that happens inside me sometimes while I go about my day in my very lovely life. Like I’ve just died and no one can see and I don’t want to let them know because it will only cause them pain. And I know that no good will come from bothering them with this temporary death. So I’ll just try to smile. or not. But either way, I’ll just keep moving forward, doing the things I’m supposed to be doing.

And I will remind myself that it is helping them- my facade. My presence here, looking okay, acting like I’m not in so much pain, it’s good for them. It’s what they need – to believe I’m okay, even if they sort of know I’m not. And it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do anyway. If I’m just sticking around for their benefit, I may as well make them feel good about it. As much as I can.

This just hurts so much. I can’t measure it. I can’t express it. I can’t even cry. (The tears just won’t come.)

What more is there really to say?

My life is great. I have everything I could ever ask for. And I am numb to it all. fin.

drawing of a woman with a colourful beam shooting onto her back.

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6 thoughts on “There are no words

  1. I read this and was actually really proud of you – it take a lot of courage, understanding and self awareness to write and grasp what you are going through. I see progress in your notes.

    But the deadness and the feelings of plodding along when it all seems too much are shitty. Really shitty. And nothing I’m going to say will make that go away, but I know that you can do this. You are a fighter. Look at you. The blog, the sense of humour, the candour- you are fighting. Keep fighting my love.

    But your post made me think of this post which I have (and probably will again) lived through, and I thought I would share a funny and real account of the deadness.
    http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.ca/2013/05/depression-part-two.html?m=1

    I also equate it to taking a beautiful mountainscape, being in the wilderness with mountains and fresh air around you. That place is amazing. The other place is the flattened out topographic map of that most beautiful place. That amazing alive thing is now this flat, dull, one dimensional mix of lines and confusion. But the beauty is that they ARE the same place, so even when you are feeling flat and dull, you still have that beauty inherently part of you. And those willing to spend the time, they can see the beauty and the majesty hidden between the squiggles.

    One other thought is that I know I will always have a nasty whisper in my head. Giving up, forever, and really turning dead inside is this faint whisper that keeps coming back when I need it the least. I turn dead inside and at every challenge, annoyance or frustration it is there, whispering like a nasty serpent, “you know, you could just get this over with right now….”

    It’s like standing on a fence, balancing with all your might, when someone comes by and pushes you when you aren’t prepared. I’m always thrown off. Being pushed off balance by yourself is the same feeling, you’re working so hard and then there is the push; in my case it’s the whisper.

    But you can do this, know that you may wobble up there on the fence, but that you have a host of people standing beneath that fence, waiting to catch you and help you climb back up.

    Stay strong, you are loved.

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  2. I wish I had words for you right now but I’m right there with you in that abyss of “why am I here?”. People can see that I’m not myself even though I try hard to hide it. But they don’t know how much I am suffering on the inside. Does it really protect them by not knowing? I’m not sure. Does it help us though in telling them so that they can help us? I think so. But it’s hard to say that you’ve day dreamed about running your car into telephone poles the entire way to a pumpkin patch.

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