...I don't know

It is hard.
It is hard to feel any desire to wake up, and having woken, to feel...at all. that's it. no story, no images of crippling racing thoughts, self image, run - through of all I am to and will ultimately fail to accomplish with my day. nil. that all comes the moment I sit up.
It is hard.
Then comes getting out.of.bed. ha... if I make it more than the 14 steps to the bathroom and back then I am truly in top form that day. I hole up in a room I have by a friend's place. while initially I am watched over there, it has fast become a haven to escape the routine of going round to greet my landlady by the front of my apartment on mornings she comes to work at the studio and workshop out front.
It is hard.
I love to learn. I love reading. I love researching. lately I do almost none of it. everything hurts. everything evokes no sense of interest at all. nothing. I love to cook. I have no interest in food. I love music. I have almost no desire to hear it or practice it. I love to dance. it has become a chore.
It is hard.
The persons who don't know what's wrong sense something 'off' about me, but they don't pry. They just stay concerned from a safe distance, assuming it will sort itself out soon enough. It's worse dealing with those who know. to see the concern in their eyes laced with fear, as if I'm a time bomb and the countdown is barely audible, them on tenterhooks not able to see the timer but expecting the worst as inevitable.
It is hard.
I don't know how to tell my family. I hide from their disapproval as I've always hidden, hidden my fears, hidden my loves, hidden my passions, hidden...me. For all intents if they are ever concerned, it is placated with the excuse of "homesickness." Not a lie, but my fingers burn to type it in response, my throat tightens to say it. I am, in a way, homesick...but homesick for a feeling, for a sense of self....for who I had known myself to be.
It is hard.
I tried offing myself once...or twice...some books mention cases where the failure to succeed ends in a new lease on life, in a sense of purpose and the intense will to live. I find such accounts funny, so rosy that I wished I related. I'm now too wary of disrupting anyone's life and inconveniencing anyone to dare do something as costly and upsetting as dying.
It is hard.
I began my academic journey here in close to top form, and truly enjoyed my course of study and the discourse surrounding it. Now, it is a victory if I look at a notebook. I am likely to end the semester on academic probation. Who is this stranger I see in the mirror? that stares at me with vacant eyes and a soulless smirk? Is he here to stay?
It is hard.
I prided myself on being centred. Lately the phrase "I don't know" supplants every other string of words for most used in my vocabulary. I curve my back to the slow realisation that people are not always concerned for you, so much as for what you mean in the scheme of their lives. and that is okay. we gain our sense of identity from what we mean to others. I can't even muster anything close to bitterness. in truth I can't bring myself to feel. and like the dim awareness of danger that we inherently intuit, I know something is very wrong there
It is hard.

"Carl, you're presenting with the symptoms and behaviours of someone going through Clinical depression."
"okay"
"Do you understand? this is not some simple homesickness or mild or even moderate sadness. your scores here are very worrying."
"okay"
"I think you need to come in more steadily. I'd also recommend a Psychiatric appointment, meds may be a feasible option to aid in the process"
"okay"

three months later, and whoever I was before is becoming more and more distant memory.

"Do you think you are getting any better? seeing any progress?"
"okay"
"That is not quite a response. how do you feel in the mornings when you wake?"
"I don't"
"Do you think these sessions will work? Do you feel any closer to your usual self ?"
"I don't know."

It is hard.
and I don't know if I've ever been worth "hard."
and here i sit
fearing that with each breath I prove myself right

It is hard.
but stopping...stopping is not any easier.

so every friday I get dressed, I hop on taxis and buses. I go to my appointment, skating in minutes late (further evidence I am far gone from normal) I sit before my counsellor and waver between catatonic "I don't know" and frustrated "I don't know"... sometimes I talk about my week. every so often I say three sentences about someone or thing. then the weekend blurs by and I awake on Monday again...and I breathe shallow as my class time ticks by, my heart pumping past seconds, my confinement mocking my supreme failure to face the day...to face anything...and 10 hours later I muster up the will to leave and start my evening... and return 5 hours later spent and morose...saying 'maybe tuesday will be the day I make it outside'
...and then suddenly It is Friday, and i'm saying my new rosary...
"I don't know...I don't know...okay"

Maybe it will stop being hard soon

okay?

I don't know