Depression: At One With My Sofa

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To say I don’t care about much anymore isn’t quite accurate.  I can’t care about much anymore.  I’ve always been far more prone to depression than your average mope, but much like alcoholism, I’m not certain if it is genetic (and therefore an inherited chemical imbalance) or learned behavior unconsciously utilized to shield myself from the presence of others.  Have I mentioned I’m not too fond of others?  I’m not.  To say such a thing is the very antithesis of my stated (wishful) philosophical views of life itself.  But a feeling (more like a dense fog with mass) is not a philosophy and a philosophy cannot change a feeling.  I do not enjoy life.  That’s all there is to it.

There are still a few specific things and/or sentient beings about whom I care a great deal.  My sister, my parents, my dog, a few friends…the usual suspects.  However, to say that I care for them a great deal is about the extent of my affectionate capabilities.  They’re still people (except for the dog, of course) and as such, often avoided so as not to disturb the precious time I spend doing absolutely nothing.

My sofa, were it capable of speech, probably would have shouted “I’m SO fucking tired of your ass!” months ago, and this would have caused me great distress, as it is the one thing upon which I can always rely.  When I arrive home from work this evening, it will be there, perfectly positioned in front of the television for optimum viewing from the supine position.  To be honest, although the television is often on and tuned in to some idiotic program or another that I’ve chosen to watch, I’m usually not really “watching” anything.  I lay there, eyes open or closed, and stare – at the wall or my knees or the TV in the former case and at the inside of my lids in the latter.  When I’m feeling a tad more ambitious, I sit and stare.

People scare me (myself included).  They also annoy me (myself included).  I no longer aspire to be some kind of sociopolitical warrior or even a rebellious upstart because people are too numerous and angry and opinionated for any such ambition to amount to anything but pure folly.  Not only am I not going to change the world, I may not even change the cat litter this evening.  I will, however, resume my unspoken love affair with my sofa as soon as I walk through the door.  To date, it hasn’t shouted at me for overusing it and I see no reasonable way that it will develop such a capability.  It patiently and silently supports my lazy, mopey ass for as long as I insist it do so.  It’s been almost nine hours since I last bonded with its cushions.  I miss it so.

Paul Loughman

3 thoughts on “Depression: At One With My Sofa

  1. Paul, You have a Very Real, Alive and Positive effect on More People than You think! Many of US Love YA Very Much and Value Your Friendship, Company and Thoughts Very Much! I have a Spot on 1 of MY Couches and Boy is it Comfy, However it is Just that !

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Paul
    Nice, honest, and personal essay.
    I don’t think its the amount of time one spends on one’s ass sitting or reclining, eyes open or closed. Its the time spend in mindfulness that comes and goes as we rest.

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  3. I have just taken Magic’s 1/4 of the sectional and had the boys remove it to the street. A proper burial. Derek to restore order by reconnecting the remaining three (I hope). I now have room for and shall move over 2 of the 3 club chairs and hope for company. Also if I stare for that long at my knees nothing good comes of it 🙂

    Like

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