I’m about to graduate. I’m engaged, I have a job and a house lined up for once I finish university, and in fact what I’m studying for now is a Masters degree which I don’t even need for my job, because I already have a BA from one of the best universities in the world. Everything is great. But I’m not happy.
How ungrateful, I hear you cry. Life has pretty much handed itself to me on a plate, and yet it still isn’t good enough for me. That’s not strictly true, though – the problem is more that I’m not good enough for it. My mind just won’t let me enjoy things, it all looks and feels flat and grey and the same and I just don’t care. A few short months ago I was considering coming off antidepressants because I’d been feeling better (more to the point, I’d been feeling) for quite a while and I thought it was over, but now it’s back with a vengeance.
It’s not as if I’m not trying to be happy – along with the antidepressants I take omega-3 tablets and vitamins; I don’t drink much caffeine or alcohol and I’m not eating chocolate or sweets; I buy and consume anything and everything that some passing comment on the internet or in a magazine suggests might be beneficial to my mental health; I exercise and sleep; my collection of self-help books is still increasing, but sometimes nothing helps.
In a way all this flatness is a relief; at least I’m not stressed about revision. Other people may be sobbing in front of their tutors or devising ways to revise whilst in the shower, but I have the wildly liberating option of staring at the wall or the computer screen for unproductive hour after unproductive hour without even feeling guilty about it afterwards.
I’d better stop writing this and get on, though; those walls won’t stare at themselves.