There’s a George Strait song called “I hate everything.” It resonates with me, though I don’t hate everything. I like nothing, which is different. My life revolves around sleeping, waking, working, and doing things for others. I don’t feel sad, happy, or anything but muscle and joint pain.
I feel nothing, a void, an absence. I feel the blank page, silence, dark matter, and dishwater. I move through the world, expecting to feel, but nothing happens. It’s unsettling, like a car not starting.
Feeling nothing feels like not being human. I don’t think I’m depressed; I’m a shell alone on a beach. The human experience without emotion isn’t human. This numbness stems from worrying about caring for my son and others, neglecting my own needs. My self-induced stress worsens it. I don’t consider suicide, but I’m not afraid of it. The basic human I gave my life for seems less caring than I am. It hurts.
Since I lack insightful recommendations, I remind myself that the problem wasn’t always there and won’t always be. I must wait and trust. One day, I’ll feel emotions again.
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