Depression leaves me at the eight and a halfs. You know when you are in the hospital, and they ask you to explain where your pain is on a scale of 1 to 10? I explained to someone today that when I get to the point where my internal suffering passes 8.5 on the scale, that there is nothing I wouldn't do to make it stop. I used the analogy that I would cut off my own arm, and that it might even seem logical to do that, to make it stop. I mean, what's crazier, thinking that cutting off your arm might solve the problem, or starting to wonder if it is, in fact, crazy to think it is crazy...
I shared as well the real trauma at the eight and a halfs... The constant failures. The failure to do much more than raise your head above the pillow, to accomplish one single thing beyond breathing all day and then the lumps. The lumps of self-flaggelation, self-loathing and self-hatred for letting yourself and others down yet again...
If only I could just do something, anything, it would be better. I've survived a hundred debillitating traumas, but I can't make my brain do what I need it to do. That's a horrific sensation living at the eight and a halfs.
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