Depression

Depression.

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. 

Inevitable

Life marches on.

It’s inevitable. A lot has happened in the last two years since I posted to this blog. I’ve started other blogs, discontinued them, and then started more in an effort to replicate what this one was to me. I wanted a fresh start, someplace to chronicle life on my own. However, despite my carefully constructed places, life marched on and trampled those other sites. I didn’t connect with them, and I had gotten so wrapped up in trying to be someone I wasn’t – someone I could brag about, someone who was cool and calm and who wasn’t a neurotic mess. Someone that people would want to follow. I wanted a blog where I could post my ideas, just as long as they were politically correct and contained the sufficient amounts of wittiness, humor, and thought-provoking concepts that I found necessary for a successful site.

I found myself growing disinterested with those other blogs, and started to absorb myself into my work. It’s a little known fact that I’m a bit of a workaholic – despite my disorganization, I love to work. It gives purpose to my life.  I started working 70+ hour weeks, started to focus on that and trying to be successful. I don’t regret it for a moment – I learnt a lot during those first few months - but I started to burn out. And, in the process, I lost myself a little bit. I couldn’t replicate the bare and raw honesty that this blog provided me in the other blogs I tried. Maybe I’m just sentimental, maybe I just don’t respond well to change.

In any case, here I am. Again. I’m still with the same company, just with a different position. I like my job. I like the people I work for, and the people I work with. I enjoy what I do, and I make good money.

Captain America is somehow still with me. In the two years + that we’ve been together, he for some reason hasn’t grown tired of me yet. I don’t think he’s simple minded, but sometimes I wonder – he seems to enjoy my special brand of humor and dorkery. He treats me far better than I deserve, and he puts up with far more than any man should ever be asked to. I am eternally grateful that I’ve found someone who won’t look at me like I’m nuts when I explain, in great detail, how I plan to train my cat to fetch me a beer out of the fridge.

Speaking of cats, I’ve acquired some animals. There’s the cats – Smushie (so named because, as an extreme Persian, her face is concave), and Nomeow the Russian Blue (a very dignified animal). Between the two of them, I am well on my way to achieving my dream of becoming a crazy cat lady. Tuck the parakeet is still around, although Ash (the other parakeet) died a few months back due to a tumor. I like to think he had a good life – or at least a better one then would have been afforded to him otherwise. I’ve also acquired, somehow, an African Grey Parrot named Metoo. Metoo and I have a love hate relationship – I love her, and she responds by biting the shit out of me on a daily basis.

See?  Smushed face.

And then there’s me. I’m still a neurotic mess. I still like to stare at the stars and the moon; I still love the scent of honeysuckle and almonds. I’m still a bibliophile. But, I think I’ve matured a bit. Grown a little older, perhaps. I’m 28 now – only a hop and a skip to 30. I’m starting to settle down – an eventuality that used to terrify me. Now I find comfort in making a home (albeit a sloppy one) for myself. I’ve always been a bit of a homebody, but I’ve lost the lust I had for the grass on the other side of the fence.

It’s not that I’m not motivated. That’s not it at all.

It’s just that I’ve learnt to find comfort in the little things, and to appreciate what I have for what it is.

And, really, what more could one want?