Actually one of my favourite colours, my bedroom is painted grey, so is part of my bathroom. Damn, I’d paint the whole house in it if I didn’t think it would make Mr TF have kittens.
But at the moment, my mind is painted grey and I am not enjoying it so much.
Let me elaborate.
A lot of people use the colour black as a metaphor for depression: The black dog, black mood, black clouds etc etc But my depression does not take me to the pits of despair (which I am truly grateful for) but plunges me into a pool of grey nothingness, where even the things I love the most are met with a nonchalant shrug.
I am a bit like a robot – I can walk around amongst the ordinary folk undetected, go to work, eat, sleep, go to the gym etc etc. But my mind is not there. It’s off contemplating how unextraordinary my life is, what an unremarkable person I am. Would it make a difference if everyone woke up one morning and I wasn’t there? (This one is usually accompanied by some fantasy to wake up in Fingal’s Cave or other such frivolity).
It is also usually accompanied by the fallout of the preceding mania, as 9 times out of 10, it comes directly after. (Glad to report minimal fallout this time, due to excellent support)
At the moment, my house is a mess; I tried to tidy but just ended up reorganising the cupboards which didn’t reorganising and giving all their contents to a charity shop (“We’re only two people! We only need two plates!!!!!”); I haven’t washed my hair in 5 days and it’s all chloriney from where I tried tried to swim my way out of the funk; and, in the absence of any sharp objects (thanks Mr TF!), I have paper cuts all over the tops of my arms.
But the main thing is how much nothing I feel. I would like to cry, I think it would do me good, but I can’t. I would like to laugh or shout or make jokes about a banana but..well, meh.
I also feel very much like I am floating outside of my body, looking down on it. Watching it live its life, in complete detachment from it. Things happen. Things don’t happen. Again… meh.
I know this will end. I know I am going to feel great and awful and in love and excited and queasy and petulant and joyous and cheeky and angry and reflective and relaxed and awake and hungry and thirsty and sated and happy and despairing and angst and confident and embarrassed and trusting and full of beans and wonder and… and… and… all the things.
I just cant see it yet.