You may not have known this, but there’s this very legit life changing thing called Blue Monday.
Now, of course there’s nothing stopping us from being super duper depressed all the time, but on Blue Monday we should all try our very very best to be the most depressed we can possibly be, if not for the sake of our own depression records, then at least in order to prove the scientists right. Because they are. Always right. It’s true, they didn’t quite agree whether Blue Monday was this past Monday or the one before, but they were sure it was around this time, and that we should prepare for it by buying wagons of comfort food and having a huge cute cat video collection to turn to when things got particularly blueish.
I don’t know if it was the scientists, or the fact that I’d come across a million Blue Monday blog posts and knew it was coming in advance, but the thing is, I’ve been feeling quite down these past couple of weeks.
It’s never just one thing. In fact, sometimes it’s every single thing. As if each and every detail of your life has gone out of their way to turn your reality, hopes and dreams into a big, stinking pile of dung. Then sometimes, it’s nothing you can put your finger on, which is even worse, because you know it’s there, looming over you, but you can’t see it or smell it or punch it in the guts.
With me, it’s always the first type of Blue Monday. Everything is wrong. Broken beyond mending. Oozing stench and hopelessness.
I would think of random words and build these impossible, excruciating mind maps reaching all the way across my existence, from one unhappiness to the next. I’d decide I was hungry, for instance, and this harmless thought would bloom into a web of disastrous thoughts: But I don’t like any of this food. Chips with everything, what’s wrong with these people? I’ll end up having a heart attack before I’m even 30. Not that I’m otherwise healthy anyway. I’ve got the stupid asthma. And with my luck, I probably won’t be able to get pregnant anytime this decade, if ever. Not that that makes any difference. I’d just have to bring the child up in a one bedroom burglar friendly rented flat. I’ll never afford a place of my own at the rate this market’s going. And my contract ends in June. Steve hates my guts, he definitely won’t renew it. So there I’ll be, looking for a job. Me. With my Russian accent. With my antisocial-people-hating attitude. I’ll be destitute in no time. V. will no doubt dump me soon enough. I’m surprised he hasn’t already. I am, after all, barren, homeless, and prospect-less. Unloved and alone will fit the picture perfectly.
Well, you get the idea.
So I’ve been carrying all this with me for a little while, and what can I say, It’s been great. I’ve been a pleasure to be around, I’m sure.
I haven’t worked much and I haven’t read much, in fact I’ve just vegetated, wrapped up in half a dozen blankets, randomly clicking this and that on the interwebs while stuffing myself with mountains of clementines. Apparently I treat my Blue Monday as I would a common cold, I’m weird that way.
Things are looking up though.
It’s almost the weekend. I’ve just ordered a bunch of stuff I don’t particularly need on the interwebs, and that’s bound to make anyone jump with joy. I’m reading a good book. I’ve got no house hunting weekend plans for a while. There’s cheesecake waiting for me in the fridge tonight. Blue Monday is but a smudge of dirty blue in the past.