Anhedonia

Depression.

“is a mood disorder characterized by a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest that significantly interferes with daily functioning. It usually involves symptoms such as low mood, reduced pleasure in activities, changes in sleep and appetite, low energy, difficulty concentrating, feelings of worthlessness or excessive guilt, and sometimes thoughts of death or suicide, typically lasting at least two weeks to meet clinical criteria.”

At first he suspected it might be such. The post holiday blues.

The general mood swing, from positive to apathy.

Except he had no thoughts of death, suicide or worthlessness. His concentration worked well when needed. His voracious appetite had not changed either.

Despondency

“A state of deep sadness marked by loss of hope and low spirits, often close to dejection or hopelessness.”

But it wasn’t that. There was no deep sadness though “hope” was lost a long time ago!

He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He had read about this feeling somewhere, perhaps there were better words…

Anhedonia.

“Anhedonia is the lack of interest, enjoyment or pleasure from life’s experiences. You may not want to spend time with others or do activities that previously made you happy.”

Hmmm… that kind of explained it but not quite.

He had the enjoyment. He still enjoyed reading a good book, watching a great film, a glass of wine, a joke, the carnal pleasures. But there was a distinct disinterest in pursuing them. They just seemed pointless, a temporary reprieve for an addict.

The malaise carried on after it.

His ambitions collapsed. He didn’t want to work or think. His intellectual inquisitiveness expired. Gone were the days when some new discovery of quantum weirdness sparked amazement, or the advancement in AI captured his soul. At some point in the past it surely would have. He had lost all interest in material or spiritual things.

Even the Great Orange Man didn’t stir a reaction. Either for or against. The great game of geopolitics was no more interesting than an ashen urn discarded on the living room mantelpiece.

He didn’t want to meet people. He didn’t want to talk to them. He especially didn’t want to hear them prattling like birds on the Galápagos Islands.

People usually came in two categories. They take money from you, in which case they are obsequious. Or they are meant to pay you, in which case they’re evasive to the point of (your) ruin.

He just wanted to be left alone.

If anything, he just wanted to escape somewhere far away. Perhaps a cabin on an isolated beach or a little hut in the mountains. Disconnected from modern life, electronics and other humans. Just some cool air, maybe the odd eagle circling a clear sky, a river or stream heard in the distance.

Yes, it was understood, it was a child like fantasy. No Vikid couldn’t hunt for food, or administer his own medical treatments. Yes, he would want the internet back after a couple of minutes meditation.

But can a man not dream?!

Whatever, it appeared not to be his destiny. He was a rat stuck in a maze, that was also a race. Disoriented but running rather fast and exhausted.

He was embroiled in court cases, investments he barely understood, businesses that had a life of their own, clients up the wazoo, hundreds of emails, threats and requests coming in from all sides, service fees, wasps with a deadly sting, slimy slugs, blood sucking bats, boa constrictors wrapped tight around the torso.

People making near constant demands. Death by Bureaucracy, delivered by the Inbox.

With a brain barely functioning. An Operating System simultaneous updating and crashing. (Hello? Bill Gates). A carefully filled form lost in the Ethernet. An indecipherable message. Password and Username not working. Would you care for some OTP? Double or Single? Format Error. System refusing to shut down. Restart not optional.

His own voice nagging at him to wake the f@*> up.

Avolition

“Marked reduction in initiation of goal-directed activity (getting started, following through), classically described in schizophrenia spectrum disorders.”

Schizophrenic?

There were no voices in the head, (apart from his own), thank heavens. No deity or demons guiding him. No sense of grandeur. But you know I know that you know that, Vikid is Great.

Empathy was still intact. Goal-direction still existed, he just had no volition to act upon it. It was more like a force field was stopping him.

Alexithymia

“Difficulty identifying and describing one’s own emotions; can coexist with anhedonia and emotional numbing but is about awareness/labeling rather than hedonic capacity.”

Yes, there was some trouble describing the emotion. But he felt it was more to do with language, not a capacity to feel itself. Just the inability to find the right words to describe how he was feeling. Maybe, Resignation? Like a soldier returning from war, incapable of relating to his family, friends or lovers. His experience so far out of the ordinary to be rendered incommunicable, fit only for the opium den.

Yes, perhaps that was it.

The soldier returning from war. Highly capable when backed into a corner. Who would die for family, friends and country. But ultimately a misfit, traumatized and dysfunctional in polite society. Which was about as polite as the African Jungle.

He looked up and smiled. Words are therapy. Writing is redemption.

And that’s

The Vikid Truth

Thanks for reading the experimental writing styles of The Vikid Truth, where fiction blends with reality. Please don’t take things too seriously!