I, myself, and me

I’ve been feeling so drab lately, like the pith of melancholic existence.  When I come across my reflection in a mirror, I am looking through dropped eyelids and sagging brows and my expression looks more forlorn than a dog who is not getting attention from its master.  I find myself wondering, “What the hell happened to you?” with quiet despair.

I haven’t felt like “myself” in such a long time – which is a strange way to feel, really, because it’s not like I am now somebody else.  There was no Freaky Friday incident (at least, not that I’m aware of).  I’ve always been me.  So why do I feel so utterly not me?

Maybe I’m just nostalgic for a former version of myself who I had a more enjoyable experience of life through.

But I am the one experiencing this depression and anxiety.  And maybe my resistance to it is only serving to propagate the “problem.”  Instead of longing to be who I once was – carefree, enthused, perma-smiling (isn’t it interesting that we tend to define that “feeling like ourselves” is the positive experience of being ourselves?) – maybe I just need to accept the experience of my life as it is right now and stop looking back.

I almost wrote “easier said than done” as a closing line, but then I realized that this kind of resigned attitude is practically stopping me before I even try. So instead I’ll merely say, ta-ta for now.

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