Empty

I don’t know what to say in this space.

For a long time now, I have felt exactly nothing. Nothing good, nothing bad. No highs or lows. I am am abandoned building; no one is home and no one is coming to visit. I am the level plain where nothing grows.

There are words for this state. Clinical ones like anhedonia, Which technically means the absence of ability to feel pleasure, so it misses half the mark. Or I can make up metaphors like I did above, intellectual games that don’t touch me. I don’t really feel the need to express anything about this state. To say that it’s awful would be a deception, for if it isn’t pleasant, neither is it unpleasant. It is nothing.

Sometimes, it is boring. With no drive to do anything one way or another, I spend a lot of time in my house staring at the walls, waiting for something to change, like my husband coming home so we can eat dinner and fill a couple hours watching TV. I never feel anything about it, unless an occasional mild amusement. I don’t really look forward to it, yet it’s something in the nothing: Something to fill the hours until bed and sleep.

I find other things to fill the hours. Housework I can do, if it’s not too challenging. Big jobs are beyond me, because I would have to care about them, and even though I can see my house getting dirtier by the day, I don’t really care. No one ever comes here, so how can I care about the drifts of cat hair in the corners? Sometimes I go swimming at the rec center thirty miles away. That’s good for three hours, including travel time; I can stay in the pool about half an hour before it starts to become unbearably dreary, and another fifteen minutes if I stretch it out.

Sometimes I think I don’t want to go on another day in this nothingness. But I don’t care enough about that to be a danger to myself, either.

When I look back at the words I’ve written just now, I suppose this state must seem awful. It’s not awful; I’ve done awful. It’s something beneath awful, or maybe just above. Moving one way or another and starting to feel, maybe that would be awful. So when I try to express what it’s like, I’m stumped, because how do you express the utter lack of feeling? I don’t have any desire to go one way or the other, either to improve or get worse. Except sometimes, when other people around me are passionate about things in their lives, I feel the lack of any passion in my own life and I cry.

I’ve thought taking a step, any step, would be better (always understanding that better has little meaning to me because I don’t experience this state as being awful). When I took up swimming, I thought maybe it would open my feelings up to something else. But every step becomes more drudgery, a going-on without going-toward, and it becomes so hard to keep taking the steps at all. I’ve thought about sitting down to write again, doing NaNoWriMo next month, just making myself do it. But the idea of adding another thing for the sake of filling empty space makes me a bit angry; I don’t really believe it will get me anywhere and so why bother?

I don’t even know why I’m writing this except that I haven’t posted a blog in so long and I feel some sense of moral obligation.

I suppose this state could be an issue with my meds. I have had this thought. I can’t check it out now, because the med manager at Mental Health retired and they haven’t hired a new one yet (vague sense of dread at having to form a working relationship with a new person). It’s been suggested that this is a symptom of seasonal depression now that summer is gone. And that might be possible, except this emptiness was lurking under everything all through the summer, too. I could never be as involved in things like my garden as I thought I ought to be, because I just didn’t care enough. In fact, as to the garden, I’m (vaguely) relieved it’s dead now, so I don’t have to maintain a semblance of caring about something that I really can’t be all that bothered about.

Mostly, I feel that this state is beyond my control. I don’t think I can do anything about it, no more than the dry gulch can affect the weather that might or might not bring rain. I can only wait it out. I would say, “In the hopes that something will change,” but I don’t feel any particular sense of hope (or hopelessness). I’m resigned to the idea that I’m in a place beyond hope (or hopelessness): that maybe age or something else has put hope as far from me as every other feeling.

So my days are full of empty waiting. Waiting for anything to have meaning, to sink a hook in me, to hit my heart in a place where it registers as something other than a brief thought.

Waiting for people to come back to this empty house and light the fire.

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