Mental Churn in Journal of life stuff

I keep wanting to write a letter to an old friend. I want to tell her that I finally understand. It literally took 10 years, but I finally understand the depression she felt. I finally get it, and I finally understand how not-helpful I was. I also understand that I was never, at any point, wrong in the advice I gave. Just not helpful. What’s the difference?

If a person who is obese says “I just can’t lose the weight!” and you reply “Calories in, calories out. Stay under <x> calories a day and you’ll lose weight!” that is probably not helpful to them because even if they didn’t know that fact, they are obese because they have some mental issues and they use food to cope rather than another vice (smoking, alcohol, sex, drugs, gambling, shopping, travel, etc). It is, however, factually true. So that’s how it’s possible to be correct but not helpful.</x>

That said, to this day I have no idea how I could have been helpful to her. In all the time we talked, I never once found any reason or cause for her depression. I never found anything that helped with it. Or if I was helping, I never saw or heard any feedback to make me believe anything I could do was helping. Now, I say that, but it isn’t entirely true. Explaining why is outside the scope of what I want to write about.

I keep asking myself why I want to write to her. Why? Why? Why? Because I am depressed myself. Because I want advice from someone who has been there. The difference is that I don’t think she ever got better. Actually, it’s objectively true that she never got better.

The reason I want to write to her is because she’s taken her sadness out on her body and so am I. The thing I always wanted was to not be alone. To have someone who cared about me. I have long kept a dreadful thought in the back of my mind: what if she never got her masters because she was counting on me to be there as her friend and her own actions drove me away. By the time she appreciated what she had lost, I had nailed the door shut. I’ve spent 10 years living in dread of learning that fact was true. I dread it because I don’t want to know that I hurt someone that badly, but I also know that it’s very likely to be true.

But when I take a step back, I was justified in being upset, and I was justified in how I reacted. Sealing the door shut was probably too extreme of an action to take. I…that’s where I stop thinking about the problem. That’s where I go no further; was my action of nailing the door shut too extreme or justified. I don’t consider that question.

The reason I want to reach out to her is because I want someone to care about me. I love getting an e-mail out of the blue so that I know someone is thinking about me. The reason I don’t do it with the people I already know is because they are all 45+ year old guys with families. I want to be cared about by someone who doesn’t have a full life already. And that’s why I go after her, because she still doesn’t have a full life.

I was thinking, last night, about my own depression. Why does it exist? Fundamental answer? Because I have removed literally everything in my life that makes me unhappy. My life doesn’t contain any struggles. Because I don’t have to try, or struggle, or fight for survival, I have stagnated. Without anything to constantly test me, I have no reason to try, and life becomes meaningless. I’m in no hurry to fix that because I want to leave New England before I try to fix my social life. Why bother making friends for just 2 months?

All told, I do need to get out of my own head. For once, the people who say that to me are right. They normally are not correct. At all. I’ve spent my entire adult life being able to see where things are going to go and knowing what is going to happen with near-perfect accuracy. My prediction engine doesn’t see how to fix myself though. Can I fix pieces? Maybe. Can I try things and see what happens? Certainly. Do I know what I need to do in order to actually fix anything at all? Not a fucking clue.

I don’t even know what I really wanted this post to be about. I’m just rambling at this point. Meh. I’m allowed.