The Inability To Care For Myself

Image courtesy of Stockvault.

Today’s been a rough day. For whatever reason, I’ve been feeling more forgetful. I’m used to my mind working better than this. Most likely it’s a product of several depressive episodes, or the meds I’m on, or some combination of the two. I can never tell.

The bottom line is that whenever this happens, I’m painfully familiar with the truth that I’m unable to care for myself. Simple tasks elude me from time to time, and when I realize it, there’s usually a spike in anxiety followed by a depressive tunnel ride. In my mind, it all equates to being completely helpless and hopeless.

Granted, other people live with even more absentmindedness than I do. I suppose for them they’re able to recognize when little mistakes get made. Even bigger slips of memory are common. It’s just that I’ve always held myself to an impossible standard.

I know why this is – one can’t escape the impossible growing up with fundagelical Christianity. Even greater western culture has this notion of blame embedded deeply into it. Whenever something bad happens, someone or something must be responsible for it. I just happened to live with people who thought a loving deity demanded a pound of flesh for everything.

At times like this, I’m also reminded that I can’t do anything for myself to catch a break. Whether it’s churches at the street corner or my own neurons, I’m going to catch hell for anything I forget. Therapy and coping strategies say this is an illusion, a bad habit I’ve lived with that can be changed slowly over time. But I feel like someone whose skin is on fire right now; the fire extinguisher isn’t going to solve all my problems.

I’m also reminded of the fact that my mind shuts down whenever I consider what I need to do to get my life back. Right now it’s pointless to think about, because it will only cause a darker episode. Things are dark enough right now; I don’t need any help.

And all of it’s because I just forgot to take out the trash today.