It’s well known that getting too much or too little sleep are common signs of depression. I’m more the former. I escape into the unconscious at night after spending the day wrapped up in my head. I suppose then, that there are those whose problems keep them up at night, while their days stay full enough with the drudgery of muddling through to keep them preoccupied.
I’ve gone from getting eight to nine hours per night to six or seven–sometimes less. This, at the time of year when the sun is in deepest retreat and even those with the strongest emotional fortitude find themselves inexplicably moody.
I wouldn’t say I’m any more or less depressed than before, although the trend seems to be steady improvement. It’s made me wonder whether the classically understood causes and effects have been reversed. To wit: it’s not your depression making you sleep — it’s your sleep making you depressed.
I’ve already mentioned this week that I’m disappointed in myself for not using my time more wisely — that’s true for the daylight hours as well as the evenings. I haven’t watched a movie or television in a couple weeks and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve accomplished what little I have due to the de facto deprogramming. It’s so easy to flog one’s self over the squandered time. I could have been housecleaning. Grocery shopping. Writing. Reading. Learning one of four or five software packages on my list. Working on this or that freelance project. Studying Japanese. Dutch. Spanish. Practicing guitar. Running. Lifting weights. Making that first million.
Instead, I’m (honestly?) completely preoccupied with getting laid. There’s something about being cheated on that creates an itch that must be scratched. I wish it wasn’t so — my feminist tendencies lecture me internally about objectification and such. I could pretend, but I feel guiltier about being dishonest than being a dog. Were I in possession of the opposite set of equipment, all this wouldn’t be a problem. Generally, a woman can go about getting what they need without too much worry or effort — but any man will tell you that the sticky stench of desperation will follow you around like a black cloud if you try following suit.
I know intellectually that I’d be much better off engaging in any of the activities on my little ad-hoc to-do list. They’d make me happier; they might even help attract someone. Someone who’s also happy. Instead, I find myself considering all manner of “solutions,” up to (yes, and including) paying for it.
We like to think we’re all modern now — women in the workplace, stay-at-home dads, etc. I’m down with all that. But it remains true that on the dating scene, you will be buying the bulk of the dinners, drinks, and tickets. A fancy car & house might attract the “wrong” kind if person, but they don’t necessarily turn the “right” kind away. A million in the bank never hurt anybody’s chances. I wouldn’t be the first to decide that it’s more straight-forward (and perhaps even cheaper) to go for the sure thing.
I been following this thread for a while, keep it going