Eating a sandwich my wife made for me, not really hungry, but I should probably eat something. On the verge of crying, because I'm so depressed, but such simple sweetness as a sandwich is breaking up the ice block of being unable to say or do or think anything. The detail of the ground chicken, something I wouldn't have added had I made my own sandwich, changing the taste to make it about my Erin. 

Got no snark, no wit, no poetry, just this, this's all I can do. Felt like I got hit by a depression bullet. The ballistics might say there's reasons. Not my life though, it's not so bad. It's getting off SSRIs finally catching up with me maybe.

I'm really trying to fight it. It's so fucking relentless though. Terrifying how sudden, deep, and complete it seems, renders the rest of my life null, despite what rationality tells me, there's never any feeling ok again. Everything reflects this void, the cats are cute, I guess, whatever that means, but also depressed, everything is depressed and depression. I'm gonna go right back on the meds, this is frightening. 

Must not sleep, even though that's the only thing there seems any point in doing. Have to earn sleep at the end of the day, to make that not existential night-terror tossing and turning hell. Must endure rest of day to earn the blessed relief of dreams.

It's weird feeling almost as bad as if I'd relapsed and gone on a drug binge or something. And yet have been sober all this time. It may be I really just need that chemical re-balancer. I've been doing the right thing for the most part, and yet feel as wrong as the aftermath of any slip. Can make me appreciate simple things again, I guess though, my beautiful wife, sandwiches.