Pain as a philosopher’s muse

I’ve messed up my shoulder, not sure how, but it’s making a whole load of things harder to do and is causing me a bunch of pain and hassle. I should be fine in a few days but that’s not really the point; my cello, a rather large investment, that I do actually adore despite appearances, is sat next to me as I type, and I can’t play it. Now I’ll be the first admit that I haven’t always played a lot, but that’s because I’m a lazy, procrastinating generally despondent person, not because I don’t love the instrument; but now I can’t play, I’ve wanted to so bad in my life. Stupid, am I right? And I can’t do many of the other things that I love either, I can’t really write and even cross-stitch caused me pain, typing this isn’t particularly comfortable so I’ll try to keep this brief. But I had to get down how this injury reminded me of something, something else that keeps me from doing the things I love on a day to day basis.

I’m not lazy. Not really. I’m depressed. And constantly fatigued, and occasionally crushed under the weight of unnecessary schoolwork. I’d love to finish my first novel, to actually get my writing out there like my mother keeps telling me to, but I’m exhausted, and battling a world that doesn’t want me to be like I am. It’s a wonder that I’ve achieved what I have. For one thing, I’m still alive. But you don’t get a medal for surviving. It’s a constant source of frustration because nobody wants to do nothing with their life, everybody wants to leave a mark on the world, even if it’s just a footprint in the sand.

Depression. Mental illness. It’s the shoulder pain that never goes away, but we’re expected to wait literal years for help and soldier on through, suck it up and just try harder. I’m trying harder. I’m typing through the pain. We’re all trying to climb a seemingly insurmountable mountain and we’re doing our best.

But lord is it difficult.