Here’s what it feels like to me anyways.
I have three sorts of days: normal days, blue days, and grey days. Now, most days are usually a combination of all three, but every now and then you have one day that seems to be more extreme. Also, these feelings don’t always divide neatly into a day. Just so you know.
Normal Days
I say normal, but I don’t really know what that means, so a normal day for me is what I think of as the type of day you guys have. It’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s just a day. Maybe you had some good moments and maybe you had some bad. But at the end of the day, you feel neutral.
Blue Days
When people think of depression, this is what they think of. They think of debilitating sadness. They think of people huddled into themselves, crying until there are no tears left to cry, and all they can do is shiver and curse the world. In their minds, we depressed individuals are scraping our wrists and thinking of death.
It’s not always like that and it’s not always so bad as that. But, yes. We do have those days.
Grey Days
This is the sort of day that no one ever considers when they hear you have depression. During a grey day, you feel empty as if your entire body was hollowed out and all that remained was a thin, papery layer of skin. You walk throughout your house, wanting nothing, wanting to do nothing but waste time. Although you don’t feel particularly sad, there is nothing that can make you happy either. Regardless of all the wonderful hobbies you might have, not one of them is strong enough to raise you from this lifeless sensation.
Usually, when I have a grey day, I go to bed early in the hopes that the next day, I can feel….something, anything, even if it’s sadness. I would be comfortable with sadness.
So that’s what it’s like. And as I said, not every day is completely blue or completely grey. But think of it this way: exceptions aside, the best day you can have is neutral, not positive, not a plus, not a single value above the x-axis…neutral. Maybe you don’t always dip down into some deep trough, but what sort of life is one whose days can never be called “good?”
He Who Wanders 