depression

There are a lot of commercials on t.v. about depression. A lot. I can identify with all of them. Sometimes a wave of blackness comes over me and it takes a bit to get past it and on with life. That must not be the kind of depression those t.v. people are dealing with, though, the kind that need drugs to move on. I must have the little black cloud, the infant of depressions. I don't ever want to graduate to the blacker levels. The dark waves I swim in are bad enough; the thought of them magnified a hundred times is pretty horrible.

Flirting with thoughts of slashed wrists, drinking huge amounts, heroic leaps from a great height, lying down in the middle of the street and never moving again -- very dramatic, but that's all it is, flirting. Drama. Save the drama for your mama.

When I write, it makes the blackness recede a little. Keep writing, I need to keep writing. I don't know if the blackness will ever go away, can it? but I'd like to make it's appearances less frequent. Losing myself in writing will do that. I know that. It's the only way I'm going to survive. Not writing -- I'll just continue to eat myself to death. Maybe I'll live another thirty years that way, but it wouldn't be fun.