Since around 2001, Iâ€™ve had a online journal, which means that since 2001, Iâ€™ve chronicled the majority of my depressive cycles, sometimes in breathtaking detail, and sometimes just with one meaningful post heavy on the choking/drowning/black hole/night sky metaphors that really, you know, capture the feeling of a severe bout of depression and or despair.
Sometimes the post was to explain away an absence of posts for days or weeks or months and sometimes it was to round-about apologize to the friends in the audience who may or may not have been reading who may or may not have even been my friends any more, to sayâ€”Iâ€™m sorry Iâ€™ve been flaking. But it is hard to put on pants when you are choking in a black hole under a night sky that is drowning in sorrow, am I right? Except without the danger of possible embarrassment and potential ridicule and or doubt and or skepticism that might arise if I actually was brave enough to resurface and apologize in person.
Sometimes the post was to purge, and to say, hey, things are hard and I am sad and I just wanted to say that. My biology is messed up, my headology is a wreck and I never learned any useful coping mechanisms and here we go again. Iâ€™ve been aware of the endless cyclical cycling and I have always had the feeling if I were to look at a wide-angle shot of all the things Iâ€™ve ever written over the course of my online life, a very clear pattern would emerge and then Iâ€™d have to go cry into some pudding.
Iâ€™m pretty tired of documenting my bouts of depression. Iâ€™m tired of them occurring, and Iâ€™m tired of them hanging around, eating all my cold cuts and drinking all my beer and leaving crumbs on my couch and thumbprints on my mirrors. Iâ€™m tired of giving in to depressions and accepting the idea that occurs to me, that I cannot function and always I will be sad. Iâ€™m tired of saying that Iâ€™m tired of it.
Iâ€™ve been doing this a long time, and trying to cope with it for about as long. Thereâ€™s not a lot left for me to do, besidesÂ electroshock therapy. Medicines, doctors. Going for a brisk walk! Buying myself flowers. Making lists that include the items â€œget out of bedâ€ and â€œtake shower.â€ Aerobics. Sunlamps and heat lamps and changes of scenery. Just giving into the lying in bed and crying until I am all cried out. They help; they donâ€™t cure. What I want is a cure. What I want is to never again have to write a post full of metaphors about being smothered under wet blankets/frozen in an icy sea/beaten with flannel-wrapped hammers, accompanied by an acknowledgement that I have a great life and am very lucky and I donâ€™t mean to be ungrateful and Iâ€™m really sorry, I am, I am.