I have been amazingly unproductive this whole weekend.
Even the idea of looking at a book makes me anxious. I'm not sure why I get this way. I mean, I know that for me, one of the first things to go when my depression gets worse is decreased cognitive functioning (maybe decreased is an understatement...). But there's also the strange anxiety. There is no judgment, and there is little room for failure. Still, I freeze up at the thought of running my eyes across the pages of a book. I guess it's a vicious cycle in which I get anxious about my academic performance because I know I can't perform normally, and I can't perform even more so because of the anxiety.
I have an inkling that my environment is really starting to work against me. I moved here after my health began to falter and my work performance went wayyyy down. It provided me the immediate relief of not having to work and not having to deal with this wierd triangle of a commute where nothing was less than 40 minutes away. But I knew that after the immediate relief, the reality of the situation would start to reemerge. Home, where I experienced some of my trauma, would eventually become that -- where I experienced some of my trauma. Ignoring the voice in my head (the normal kind, heh), I actually thought I might be able to have some semblance of a home for once. And for about the 20th time in my life, I moved. The first month, heck, even three or four, were actually not half bad. But now I am slowly noticing myself becoming increasingly more irritable and isolated, my anxiety going up, and my eating habits shifting. My health is on the decline.
The reality of the situation is that I have hit that wall I knew I would when I moved here six months ago. I guess it's time to find an alternative solution. How could I let myself forget? People like me have no home.