Feeling Inadequate

You know that feeling that feeling of being a complete and utter failure? That feeling that nothing you do is ever good enough? No matter how hard you might try, nothing you do will ever work out. Nothing you say will ever be right. Nothing you hear will help you because when you try to fix anything, it will still be wrong. You will never be good enough.

A friend once told me, "Oh, that just "a sad". You don't understand real depression. You'll be fine."

I found this quote yesterday:

"He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the mid-afternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad." -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

I am not sad.

Maybe it is just "a sad". Afterall, I got out of bed, made it to work, talked with some customers and some coworkers, had some meetings, worked on some websites. I'm going through the day. I'm not hungry but it's lunch time. The thought of eating has no appeal. The thought of not eating also has no appeal. I'm not curled in a ball on the floor unable to contemplate moving.

I am not sad.

Sometimes I hear myself screaming in my own head. I did yesterday. But not today. That voice is quiet today. I don't know why. I don't know what's different. Maybe she's curled in a ball on the floor, unable to contemplate moving.

I am not sad.

Writing doesn't seem to help. Because nothing I do will ever be good enough.

I am not sad.