This morning I played my last tennis match for the season and perhaps my last for a few seasons. I got out of bed, I made my way to the courts, I didn't win. In fact I got utterly thrashed. But in the words of Meat Loaf, that's two out of three which isn't too bad under the circumstances. I wanted the match over with as quickly as possible and got my wish. I lost 6-1 6-1 and was lucky to win two games, but I didn't care. We played on Court 1 where everyone could watch. They must have wondered what was going on. It was a match I never would have won even in the old days when I could still just about play the game, but this time I couldn't get off the court fast enough. At times I'd call out the score - "love-forty!" - before the point was over because I knew I was beaten. Matches are still going on as I write this, and a lot of people are down at the club watching them, but the thought of watching people play - and enjoy - good tennis on a sunny afternoon was too much to bear. And besides, I felt embarrassed. I went straight home, not knowing when I'll play tennis next. I wouldn't mind if I had a friend I could get the occasional knock with, but being part of a club and everything that goes with that is just too much right now.
It's strange what depression does to me. Not only do I stop caring, I also find it very weird that other people still do care. I have to remind myself that there was once a time that I cared too.
Tomorrow I'll attend the Anzac Day parade in Devonport and later meet up in St Lukes with a few of the Asperger's group to watch a movie. I'm looking forward to that.