Even. As in level, flat, free from variation or fluctuation.
That’s how I feel right now. Even.
And I don’t like it. In its very stableness, my mind is too smooth, like a snake-oil salesman who is tricking me into believing that this is the way I’m supposed to be.
I’m used to the rolling change of my emotions, the extremes that propel me and strangely keep me grounded and full. Feeling is a good thing, even when the sensations are stormy. Because the depth of my feelings also bring relief. These days I shed so few tears that my emotions feel like they’re hiding behind a dam of obscurity. I know they are there, I just know it. But I don’t feel it.
My evenness is a state I am altogether unfamiliar with. It’s uncomfortable and foreign.
I think it’s the anti-depressants. They are doing what they are supposed to do. Most days I am completely free from the mental turbulence that plagued me for so long, and yet I still don’t feel content. They’re fooling me, and at the same time hiding me.
How odd this is. To be clear-minded, generally happy, and yet wayward and lost at the same time. I don’t even know myself. With mental health come this evenness. I am better to everyone else, and mostly to myself, but at the same time I’m not.
This is very counter-intuitive.