It was two years ago when I threw a party for my friend visiting from California. Everyone who said they were going to come actually showed up and my house had the fuzzy buzz of beer and laughter. It had to be the first party where I felt like I did well as a hostess: clean house, good guest list, fun and plentiful snacks. And I remember standing there in my hallway, realizing that all that there was left to do was enjoy the party, and instead, all I felt was 'meh'.
For anyone who doesn't understand the term 'meh,' it's basically "I could take it or leave it," "I'm bored," and "I don't care," all rolled into one. It's best felt when said out loud and shrugging, "meh."
So back to the party that should have put me in a dizzy haze of "Mission accomplished! I rule!" and instead, it felt like I just unloaded the dishwasher: an accomplishment, but nothing spectacular. I hid my "meh" and put on a happy hostess face for the night, hoping it was just PMS or stress causing the emotional aberration.
Let's jump to January of this year. My wonderful fiancé took me to Walt Disney World where we stayed in the best hotel with the best floor and the best view and ate the best food. It was mid-way through our week stay and I realized, I still had the "meh." Sure, running around the theme parks was cool, having free lattes was awesome, but I still didn't have that burst of elation that I was expecting to have in the "happiest place on earth." For goodness sakes, I was in Disney and still felt emotionally flat-lined.
I'm not suicidal. I don't want to hurt anyone or myself. The problem is that I just don't want to do anything. I still go to work. I hang out with friends occasionally. I just completely lack passion. I'm not constantly frowning, but I always have to force a smile.
So next week I have an appointment to talk with someone professionally. One of the catalysts would be my 2 hour, 11PM sobbing fit from last night in which, half way through, I realized that I don't have any real problems, which made me feel even worse and selfish.
I've known since January that I should have picked up the phone and called for help, but why the wait? I was terrified to call. I don't really have any misconceptions about therapy (at least I don't think so). Psycholo/Psychia-trists aren't just judgment factories and unless I was really far gone, they wouldn't just cart me off to a mental institution against my will. I don't feel any stigma against people with mental illnesses. I think my biggest fear is that maybe I don't actually have a problem. Maybe this is just what most everyone feels and so there's no fix. It's like when you're a kid and you completely opt out of kickball so that you don't have the chance to be the last one picked for a team. You can sit back and let your mind wander about whether you would have been picked 5th or 9th or last. It's easier to have a shred of hope when you don't even try in the first place. Basically, what I'm saying is I'm a coward. Why try and possibly fail when you could just not try at all and never feel the fail?
