I’ve never been particularly interested in material things, and I don’t accumulate a lot of stuff. I get satisfaction from getting rid of things, so every so often I’ll do some paring down.
A while back, I wrote about Depression and Closet/Identity Thinning, and whether I should get rid of the more dressy, feminine clothing that I used to wear when I wasn’t depressed. It wasn’t a question of closet space; it was a question of whether or not I wanted to hold onto the possibility of that identity and that life before depression coming back.
Recently I did another round of evaluating and paring down, and I realized that there were things that I might as well get rid of because I don’t live that life anymore, and it seems pointless to think that I might.
Some of the stuff I got was education-related, including materials from psychiatry continuing education activities I’d done. I still had my summary notes from some of my university classes that I used to study for final exams. I held onto that because things that were representative of learning used to be important to me. Now that doesn’t matter. Not that learning doesn’t matter, just holding on to representations of it.
I will not be a person who socializes. I will not be a person who has people over for dinner. There’s no reason to keep the material items that go along with that. I can barely manage to maintain one in-person friendship, and I see no reason to think that’s going to shift in a more pro-social direction.
I sometimes go back to older blog posts and do a bit of sprucing up. Looking back, I can see that, at least in the early days of the blog, I thought there was at least some possibility of getting my old life back, or at least part of it. I’m not sure when that changed; I think it was a gradual shift rather than an abrupt decision.
I used to wonder how I’d be able to get my career back on track, but at this point I doubt I will ever work again. There was no point hanging onto my community mental health resource binder.
So here I am, in this illness life that I don’t actually want to live. The life I loved living is gone, although I’m glad that at least I enjoyed it when it was around. It feels increasingly distant, almost like it involved someone else rather than me.
I loved life. Now I don’t. It feels like a big contrast. Things mattered. Now they don’t. I used to enjoy things. Now I don’t. Depression has plucked out the bits of my life that mattered and tossed them to the wind. There’s no old life to go back to, so I just keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until the road ends somewhere. Or nowhere.