Saturday, July 20, 2013



Even the word is ugly.  An ugly word for an ugly condition.

It’s a dirty little secret people like to sweep under the proverbial rug.  It’s something that society mocks, something that is real and tangible and altogether far too common.

I’ve known a lot of people, been friends with a lot of people, who have it.  I have family members who have it.  I am surrounded by it, on a daily basis. I laugh.  I have fun.  I float through my life, day in and day out, drifting on waves of contentment and pleasure.  I am privileged, and I am incredibly lucky for everyone in my life and everything I have.  I want for nothing.

And yet.

And yet, there is a little part of me that I hide away.  I stuff it in a box in my mind, and lock it up and pretend it doesn’t exist.  Pretend that I don’t add a new layer of chains to it every day, pretend that there aren’t dark secrets that I don’t want other people to know.  Because, the truth is, if I’m being honest – I?  Am not perfect.  I?  Am not always happy.  Sometimes, I feel like just staying in my apartment and crying it out.  Sometimes, I just want to curl up in bed with my cats and hide away from…everything.  And everyone.  Sometimes, I  just lose myself in a bottle of Jameson.  It helps me sleep.

I think that everyone can sympathize, to a certain extent.  We all have shit, ladies and gentlemen.  We all have secrets that we want to stuff in box and pretend don’t exist.

Am I depressed?  No.

Do I feel sadness? Yes.

I cannot imagine trying to wade through life with that type of weight bearing down on my shoulders every day.

And furthermore, I cannot imagine someone ever making light of it.

Is this what our society has turned into?  Someplace where we aren’t complete until we validate ourselves with the pain of others?

No thank you.  If that’s the case, I’ll stay at home with my cats and my books. 


  1. Depression and anxiety is heavy shit. I've struggled with it, as have my wife and other members of my family. I wrestled with how to cope with it, and wound up writing about it. It was the single best thing I did to help myself.

    There is always light at the end of the tunnel. We may not be able to see the end of the tunnel yet, but there is an end and the light is there.

    Glad to see you back.

  2. I've been thinking on the subject quite a bit recently. I struggled with it when I was younger, and always thought myself to be "cured." Really, the only thing that changed was my outlook on life, and it was only possible through the love and kindness of the people who surrounded me.

    Without them, I would have been lost. I am now a happy, well-adjusted (at least I like to think I am) individual. But I think that everyone has a part of themselves that they hide away, a part that's dark and sad and horrible that resurfaces from time to time. It's the monster in the closet.

    I think that depression, true depression, is the inability to forget the monster. I think that it's something that plagues a person, and follows them wherever they go. I think that there might be brief moments where the light at the end of the tunnel shines through, but then the monster goes and seals up that brief glance, and I cannot imagine having to deal with shit that heavy alone.

    I am sick of people trivializing it. It's a serious issue. One that needs to be talked about.


Because I'm needy.