cheer up Marlina!

It been a while,most of my smiles and laughter has been somewhat phoney,forced and a complete cover up of what’s been going on inside me..whenever i felt like sinking into a sea of sadness and tears,i quickly forced a smile,a wide one,hoping that somehow it will extend to my heart inside…"oh,cheer up Marlina" i kept saying that to myself untill lately i felt it is not anymore an encouragement at all,but a tired voice,frustrated and dissapointed,trying at the same time to comforts its own existence..huhu..
I have estranged myself from the one human being i loved the most..hoping by doing that, this poisonous thing inside me,doesn’t slipped past my blackened heart and creeps into my angel’s beautiful life.
i have gone through the phase..now,its treathening to come back again..the other day i found a blog on which the author describe the feeling somehow accurately..in my opinion about this thing…

[i]I was just failing and flailing. In fact, I would have liked to
have been sick—confined to bed with some mysterious, painless
illness that would have let me sleep for a long time and see no one. I
thought about that a lot. And I thought about crawling under my desk at
work, or into my wardrobe at home. The dark, the hidden, and the
confined were the only inviting spaces left. Under my desk, I
wouldn’t have to worry about leaking tears, or looking people in
the eye, or inspiring my clients to greatness.

A few months before, I’d found things funny. Skipped and sang
on Bernal Hill. Turned annoyances into dramatic stories. Said yes to
invitations. Now, before meetings, I wrote “BREATHE” on the
inside of my left wrist, because I kept tamping down stale air in my
lungs instead of letting it out. Then it escaped in windy sighs that I
couldn’t hold in any more than sneezes. I walked slowly, hoarding
energy. I planned my day to avoid people. At night I would fall into
bed in my clothes, as early as I could, only to wake wide-eyed at four
in the morning, chased by mean, looping thoughts like a rabbit on a
dogtrack.

Have you ever almost really hurt yourself? A badly-judged left turn
that makes a truck honk, or a vault off your bike that could have
smashed your skull? The knee-shaking shot of adrenaline that wires your
whole body after a near-miss is permanent in depression. At that
dosage, adrenaline is poison. Every scrap of energy gets diverted to
survival. Every fiber twitches: danger—fight or flight?  It looks like sloth, but it feels like war.

I felt like I would break, but only kind words cracked me. Luckily,
when you’re depressed, you can throw human kindness off the
scent: that frowning, sighing slump dries up the cheerful greetings and
sends friends away. It must be like being very old, or very ugly.
Without the respite of an illness or a convent,
I crawled through day after day in which I was an unfit employee,
girlfriend, daughter, sister, and friend. My mind plunged into
pointless, terrifying rants that came packaged as reality, revealed at
last. Life is ugly. No one will help. No one could help. Help with what?

Like rheumatoid arthritis, depression turns your own body against
itself. It chews not on your cartilage, but on your brain cells and
your sense of reality. It’s as seductive as a wife-beater,
shutting out other voices to turn itself into your only friend. The
only one who tells the truth about the bleakness of the world. All your
energy goes towards getting through whatever stands in your
way—struggling, slogging, pushing, through work and small talk
and getting food—whatever it is you have to get through until you
can be alone again with the voice who can be trusted.

And the last thing it feels like is an illness. No, this monumental,
world-swallowing suckage sits outside you: it comes from the project,
the job, the love affair, the city, the family, or the decade. For me,
these low cycles have always led me to abrupt life changes. It’s
a kind of shock therapy: uprooting jobs, careers, relationships, and
countries. Those shifts feed the craving for anonymity and reinvention,
and they leave behind the shame of a condition that breeds shame.[/i]

more on http://www.dervala.net/archives/000873.html

hmm…

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