I’m at the bottom, and I’m afraid I always will be. It doesn’t matter how hard I work to climb up, I’m always forced back down. I fall, I get up, I climb. I fall, I get up, I climb. A rising and falling tide, a perfect cycle of failure. It’s happened a hundred times too many, I’m afraid. Cynicism and suicidal ideation are my reaction to everything now. I will lay in this filth until I break, and when that happens I will kill myself.
I’m making excuses for my personal failure in life, yes? I have a defeatist attitude, yes? I deserve everything I get, or don’t get, yes? I’m weak, yes? I’m stupid, yes? I’m worthless. Yes. I believe I am.
Remember when you were a little kid, and playing on the swing set was the greatest thing ever? It was so much fun to see how high you could go. That breathless moment when you felt the rope slacken at the peak of your swing, and, just for a moment, you felt weightless, disconnected from the world. Then, the rope snapped back, you felt the pressure of the seat again as it carried you back towards the ground. Over, and over, up, and down, swinging, floating, falling. It just isn’t the same as an adult. You can get on a swing set now, try and recreate that feeling, but the innocent joy and wonder is gone.
Anhedonia is like that. It slowly falls over you like a shroud. It sucks the joy out of everything. Nothing is the same, and, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t feel the way you used to. It’s like sitting on the swing, knowing you can’t relive the delight of the past, but desperately trying to anyway.