If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.
The Gospel of Thomas
How do you think it feels,
and when do you think it stops?
I’ve read some powerful blog posts about depression recently (I’d give links, but always half-feel like I’m trespassing when I wander onto this stuff, myself...though any of their creators who might be reading this—you know who you are—and who you’re not—are welcome to leave links in the Comments), and was inspired to dig out something I wrote a while ago.
Winston Churchill called depression his black dog. The particular metaphor doesn’t work so well for me—dogs generally make me happy—but I like the general idea, so came up with the unwelcome guest.
(I’ll be funny next time—promise)
Here we are again. Here you are, slinking in the door a week ago, just when I was thinking you were gone for good. No doubt about it, you can still surprise me, particularly when you show up on a sunny spring day, just when things were looking up, just when I'd hoped you might be gone for good. And then, of course, you refuse to leave—by all appearances settling in for a lengthy visit—no matter how politely, or forcefully, I point to the door.
Giving credit where it’s due, you can still hit hard. You can still hit really fucking hard. Jesus Christ, I had no idea you could still hit so hard....
But...let’s face it, you’ve lost your luster. Go ahead and scoff; it’s true. Think of the times we once had, the way you wouldn’t let go, enveloped me, ran my life—hell, you nearly ended it more than once—no cigar, but, giving credit where it’s due, pretty fucking close. Hell, I thought you were my life. For a while, I thought you were fucking everything.
So what happened? Seriously, look at you now: a pale, faded, diminished thing. A soiled scrap of your former glories. Little more than the lingering stench of past unpleasantness.
Sure, you walloped me this morning. And no doubt that wasn’t the end of it—you’ll probably keep me up a good portion of the night, or simply be there, lying so naturally in my bed in the morning. But here I am. Quite calm, in fact, seeing little more significant than a recurring headache, or mosquitoes that keep getting in the house, no resemblance to the seductive menace you once appeared to be. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit I was ever so frightened of you, that I ever let you fuck with me like that.
So what to say at this point? You’re a hell of an inconvenience, but that’s all. And, in time, you’ll be gone, again. And I’ll still be here.