Breakpoint

This refers not to the scoring system in Tennis, though I must say, I am proud of the Spaniard for winning the Philip Chartier Cup for three straight years at Roland Garros, but rather, to my state of being of the present.

I have reached the point where I am bogged down. I am in a state of clinical depression. Burnt. Spent. Wasted.

This morning, after ten or so pages. I decided to stop. My mind is tired. My body is tired. My spirit is tired. The lack of emotion and external stimuli somehow invalidates me.

I’ve consulted a number of barrister friends who advised me to stop and take a break. They’ve experienced the same It’s too early in the season to bog down.

I have no desire for alcohol. I have no desire for valium. I have no desire to play badminton. I do not even have the desire to gratify myself. I have no desire to do anything. I lack the will power to struggle. I am reverted back to the primordial psychological state of “id” or “ego” maybe. I want… I want… I want… but I do not like to work for it. I want to be served. I want to be indulged and pleasured. I want all my whims and caprices consummated.

I wanted to runaway to my hideout. This morning, I have decided to take a bus to Binan and escape Manila for a few days, but considerate that I am, I know JL’s got a business to run. I just bugged him instead with my lost thoughts which to him seemed most unusual.

I decided on a movie marathon instead to appease myself. Night at the Museum, American Pie 5: The Naked Mile, Curse of the Golden Flower, Fly Boys and Letters from Iwo Jima. Temporarily, I had my emotional high. I lay down on the sofa the whole day, like a sick person. I am highly irritable. I ate ice cream and chocolates.

I never thought that I would reach my breakpoint. It is a state of depression characterized by emotional numbness. Dead as a door nail. I do not want to care. I do not want to be disturbed. I do not want this burden on me. I want my freedom.

I am depressed. Nobody can help me.

Now, can somebody save me… please.