I love to keep up with my Friends on facebook. I love to see what they’ve been up to and catch up on news I wouldn’t otherwise hear and feel involved in the epic nights out that I miss. It’s great to be connected no matter how isolated I might feel.
And yet it is so painful sometimes. It’s hard to describe exactly. Perhaps that’s because I want to put a better spin on it. Some of what I’m feeling has got to be envy. It’s not nice to realise at my age that I still haven’t grown out of envy. I try not to give it head space. I know it’s a toxic emotion and it will do me no good. But it’s still there.
Part of it is regret. I see things posted by people who are no longer my friends and I regret the lost relationship. It’s really tough when I don’t know why we’re not friends any more. I have to assume that it’s my fault but it’s not nice to know that you fucked up badly enough to loose a friend and you somehow managed to miss it at the time.
And then there’s the bitterness. Sometimes I see the life I could have lived if things had turned out differently. If I wasn’t so weak. If I was smarter or better or had made different choices.
And there’s the guilt. I look at people doing stuff that I really ought to be doing. If only I had the strength or the energy or the brains.
And then there’s the thing that I don’t even have a name for. It’s a paranoid fear of not being wanted. The terror that your presence makes other people uncomfortable but they are too polite to say.
And so I start to wonder if I should just withdraw from Facebook all together. Not from any sort of moral stance or as a protest over Timelines or privacy but just because it makes me sad and that sadness makes me worry that I’m making other people sad.
And then I worry that it’s just the depression talking and that deleting my Facebook is just me throwing my toys out of my pram.
And yet I know that all the research says that depressed people have a better grip on reality than so called normal people. My depression filter is the oposite of beer goggles. If that’s true then I really am not wanted. My words are an irritation to others. My attempts to reach out and get involved are not welcomed.
And then I get a little angry. Because withdrawing is really just another word for running away. It’s giving up. And I don’t do giving up. You don’t get to the age of 40 with depression as severe as mine if you make a habit of giving up. Because you die.
I’m only posting about this because I read something that said sharing is good for you. It’s supposed to make you feel better. This has not really been my experience. In the words of my Uncle John, “Don’t tell people your troubles because half of them don’t care and the other half are glad.”
Still the benefit of being a failed writer is that I can post this here without worrying that anyone’s going to read it. It’s virtual sharing. If I was successful and blogged about this I’d have to slog though the comments with a machete to get rid of the trolls.