Friday, July 30, 2004

The Guilty Demeanor

Emerging from the thick clouds of depression always entails some devestating speed bumps that threaten to catapult you right back into the black hole from whence ye came. (yes, i'm from 1500 apparently)

Here I am, staring off into space with a sleeping cat by my side contemplating how I've spent my summer—in a depressive haze, sleeping, eating and watching TV. I could have gotten a job and earned thousands of dollars. I could have written 50 pages of my thesis, if not the entire damn thing. I could have worked out at the gym every single day for two hours. I could have done so much more than I did.

But I didn't.

And now I feel so guilty. I've squandered away more precious time in my life in complete misery. Why?

Why wasn't I more productive? Why couldn't I put my nose to the grindstone in spite of myself? Why wasn't my house spotless, my dog svelte, my fiance well fed?

How could I have allowed myself to waste so much time when I have so many things to do?

Predictably, this thinking is not conducive to personal happiness. I just feel so horrible about it.

And what do I do when I feel horrible? Stare off into space. Not accomplish my goals. Pitch myself back into a depression.

It's like a stupid cycle that is harder than you'd think to escape. To feel better, I need to do more. I'm not doing a whole lot, so I have no motivation to change and actually do something.