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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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10:46 a.m. - 2013-12-02
It's weird. I think I'm doing okay. I don't trail around the house with my hair all uncombed sticking up in snatzy tangles, my face unwashed, teeth unbrushed, wearing the same grungy clothing for days on end. (Okay, not often.) Stuff gets done. Dinners cooked. Family and pets tended to. Errands checked off the list. I enjoy reading the comics. The front door decor is seasonally appropriate. Mick twitted me yesterday because even my Sims are ridiculously tidy and successful. If asked I'd honestly say I'm fine and in the clover. Yet looking over the last few weeks' entries I see they are screaming howls of pain. I swear to you that even when I was writing I hadn't heard it. Oh, maybe grumpy here and there, but that's what a journal is for, right? The place to park the grumbles so they don't stink up the rest of your life. Astonishing, really, how easy it is to miss what's right under your own nose. Depression is a motherfucker. Insidious disease. The termites in the house of my otherwise happy life. Unseen. Unacknowledged. Nibbling, gnawing, tunneling through the beams and studs behind the walls, undercutting the supports, a silent destruction that goes on behind the cheerily painted drywall all hung with the framed artwork of accomplishment and pleasure. Then one day unless you're lucky enough to catch it early the whole thing comes crashing down. Pinned beneath the rubble of what used to be your house all you can think is, "What the fuck? How did this happen?" Thank goodness for this diary. I believe I've caught it in time. Those howling entries are my early warning signs. Like the teeny holes and bitty piles of sawdust that might otherwise have gone unnoticed until it was too late, I'm onto you, Depression. Caught ya. Fumigation begins NOW. Fortunately (?) I've been warring with this for a very, very long time and know what to do. Sad and angry as I am to be going at it again with my old adversary I'm also delighted. My house will not come crashing down this time, mofo. No frightening trip to the Mid-Hudson Bridge to stand mid-way on the pedestrian crosswalk weeping and begging myself to find a reason (just one!) not to throw myself over the rail and down into the cold water of pain-free oblivion. No return visit to that muddy cornfield with the duct tape, a zip clamp, and the exhaust hose from my vacuum cleaner. Hose clamped on tailpipe with the other end jammed into the back window of my car duct-taped in place and a towel sealing the gap around the window glass, no getting back into the driver's seat, keying the engine and waiting, hoping, waiting for the fumes to knock me into a sleep I'll never have to wake up from. Not this time. Nuh uh. Depression, you're a sneaky bastard and a persistent one. But you don't win. Not so far. Not now. Not ever. Depression, you're a liar and a thief. You tell me I'm worthless. You make off with my joy. Your voice is a hellish monotonous Gregorian chant of my failures. You're a carrion bird peck, peck, pecking away at me- first my eyes then my heart. You never shut up and you never stop digging. Depression, you're a coward. You prey on my vulnerable places. You're a bully and a jerk. But, Depression, you know what? Over the years you've done your best and I'm still here. You went after me when I was small and helpless. You hectored and poisoned me when I had nothing and no one. You piled it on when I'd never known love or safety or even had a friend. And you didn't win. So what makes you think you'll win now? Depression, you are a fool. Today's LA is strong. This LA has mad skills and fifty years of accomplishments and victories. This LA knows things. The first and the foremost being...I am loved. Love is my armor. Love is my sword. Love is my answer. Love is my light in your darkness. So, Depression? Bugger off. I see you for what you are and I ain't buying it.
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