Well, hello, my dears. I bet you’re wondering where I’ve been since the last thing I wrote was last weekend and it is now this weekend. I’d like to tell you that I flew to Peru and climbed Machu Picchu, but mountain climbing isn’t my thing. I prefer to view their majestic glory from the bottom. I’m not a goat.

I’d like to tell you that I was busy training my new pet unicorn or counting my money after winning the lottery without ever having bought a ticket. I wish I could tell you that I did any number of exciting things or even that I did a thing, but the truth is, I just haven’t been here. I don’t mean just this blog, but also here in this world, in this life, in my right mind.

I’ve been in a bad way lately, but you know this. I’ve been struggling with depression for a few months, and though I am medicated, it isn’t helping. I’ve been taking a tried and true happy pill that worked wonders a few years past. The placebo effect of knowing that I’ve taken something to counter depression isn’t working anymore.

A few weeks ago, I also disappeared. Though I wanted to write something in the worst way, I couldn’t find the words or even a topic. Well, I hate to tell you this because you’ll worry, but this week, I haven’t even wanted to write anything.

I actually thought about never coming back and I didn’t for four whole days. It wasn’t entirely a conscious choice; I didn’t have it in me. I didn’t check comments. I didn’t read your blogs. I wasn’t on social media. I didn’t engage at all.

Then, on day five, though I was still entirely unmotivated to write anything, I poked my head in. I read a few blog posts. I answered some comments. Suddenly, I remembered why I have a blog at all. It’s not for fame, fortune or validation. It’s because, a lot of times, writing here is all that keeps me connected with the world. It’s my lifeline to sanity.

I can say whatever needs saying here and you don’t judge. Well, maybe you do, but that’s okay. The important thing is, I have a safe place to talk, but I don’t have much to say these days. Can we really run out of words?

People have checked in on me to make sure I’m alright, and I am alright in a way. I’m not suicidal, angry, sad, annoyed or any of the other emotions people are capable of having, besides maybe hungry. Is hunger an emotion? I’m not sure anymore, since I don’t remember what emotions feel like. In any event, I’m just numb.

A year ago this week when Male died, I was also numb. It was my mind’s way of protecting me from the overwhelming grief and the black hole in my heart that was actively trying to suck me through it. I remember driving to work a year ago, and when some jackass nearly forced me off the road, I felt nothing.

I feel nothing again, but in a different way. The black hole of grief has mostly receded, but I still have the numbness. I spent the anniversaries of Male’s death–there are two: the day he died and the day I found out–trying not to think about it at all.

But, the anniversaries and the death of the love of my life are only part of the problem. The real problem is not that he’s gone, but that I am also gone. I’m just not here anymore in any sort of meaningful way. I am a balloon tied with a tiny string to the world, floating around and above it, but not in it. I am this tree, choked by snow and ice, waiting for a spring that might not come. I am essentially an inanimate object.

It’s not him; it’s me. But, what do we do about it? I suppose all I can do is wait it out, but sitting in an emotion-free room alone, waiting for depression to go away is no kind of way to live. I’m not even living; I’m just going through the motions. But, I am here in my fishbowl talking about it. That’s a start.