Getting moving

I'm still concentrating on simply moving forward in the world. No, not moving forward, simply moving. Not standing still. Not vegetating.

I am loathe to admit it but it seems to be true: If I will simply do something, I feel better. I should be happy to admit it, happy to know it. But the truth is that depression is insidious in that way. It sucks the desire out of me, it sucks the marrow out of life. It leaves me an empty shell that doesn't want to do anything but sit and stare.

There is something in me that makes this impossible. If I simply sit and stare, I gradually grow more and more anxious, like I should be doing something, anything. So I run through the list of things I could be doing, ticking each off like beads on a rosary. But nothing seems to spark me, nothing sounds fabulous, nothing sounds the least bit fun.

So in the past few days, I have forced myself to do something anyway. Something. Go to the coffee shop. Walk the dog. Read my email. Write a post in this blog. It doesn't matter that it's a small accomplishment, having a shower every day is at least better than not having one. Putting my contact lenses in is a sign I want to be alive instead of in the hazy, fuzzy world of myopia. Buying a book and reading a few pages every hour or so is better than not reading it.

So I will keep moving. Forward, laterally, zig zag. Just keep moving.