Sent: 7/19/2001 11:06 AM
Depression. Depression is a real thing. I've even heard doctors say that it is its own disease. At times, I think this is true. Now, I'm not talking about feeling a little sad or down in the dumps, mind you. I'm talking about that overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that shrouds your soul, that consumes every single part of you, that clouds every good thing in your life. I'm talking about depression that is chicken pox, itchy, covering your body, raising your fever.
Depression is one of those things that you'll do just about anything to get rid of - even if for just a moment. Some of us take anti-depressants. Some of us drink. Some of us do drugs. Some of us smoke. Some of us sleep. Some of us have sex. Some of us seek relationships. Some of us consume ourselves with thrill seeking. Some of us go to therapy. Some of us pray. Some of us go to church. Some of us clean. Some of us read. Some of us sit in front of the television for years. Whatever the vice, whatever the cost, we long for rose colored glasses. Whatever the vice, whatever the cost, we doctor our disease. Unfortunately, the methods that we choose are usually the ones least effective in the long run.
Last night was one of those doctoring nights for me. Depressed and disillusioned, I went out seeking relief, a thread of happiness in (what seems to be) this unhappy world. God. What surprises me is that life is going really well for me right now. By all standards, I should feel on top of the world; however, somehow, unfortunately, this depression lingers like the stench of cigarette smoke in my clothes after a night of bar hopping. And, of course, after a night of doctoring, I found myself in the train at 1:00 a.m., going home, feeling worse than I felt when I first went out yesterday after work. Sure, there were glimpses of happiness here and there throughout the night, but nothing with longevity and nothing to remember.
J.J. had to wake me up this morning. I guess my alarm had been going off for a long time. I guess I was sleeping right through it. I really don't know. My head ached, my senses were drained, my body lay there dying, my heart cried. How did this happen to me? Was I allowing it to happen? Probably. Does it mean that I'm not strong enough? Does it mean that I'm a weak human being? Does it mean that I'm buckling under the weight of life? Did my soul carry this disfunction over from another life before? Where does pain come from? Where is sadness born? Who births it? How is it conceived?
Lots of questions in the wake of the morning. Lots of puzzlement blowing in the breeze.
I know life is not a bed of roses, but, at this point, I'd be grateful for a pillow of dandelions.
