I fell asleep during the day.
I fell asleep during the day.
I saw Michael today, and it was the second time this year that I did. Second. The last time I saw him was in January after I’d come back from Pakistan.
It was strange to say the least, because I found myself keeping secrets – or at least omitting some truths that most likely wouldn’t have made a difference. I feel as though in our scattered separation these last couple of years we’ve morphed into different people, almost strangers, and I’m okay with letting him go, and if he doesn’t want to then that’s alright too. It’s just going to take a while to get used to it, to become accustomed to these weird and new versions of ourselves. It’ll all be fine.
Also, he’s got a girlfriend who is a pretty physics student, and he’s no longer a virgin. I wept with joy.
…And drown her past regrets in coffee and cigarettes…
I don’t know about clinical depression, but the first thing I taught myself after climbing out of sadness was to see the beauty of the world around us. To look at the sky and see the colours and smile.
I sometimes still have a little trouble sleeping, so I usually sit in my garden and watch the sun rise and colour the sky. So yes, I guess I taught myself to do the same thing.
One of the hardest things I’ve had to deal with this past year or so is the numbness. After being depressed for so long, the sadness and melancholy comes to define you, and all the talking to therapists and popping of pills changes you inexplicably, in ways that your mind cannot deal with. It’s difficult to recognise and believe that the soft caress of contentment and the quietness inside means that your happy, not that you’ve been given a brief respite from the anguish.
Of course—of course—there are whole days where you want nothing but to scream until you taste the iron trickle down your throat, but it passes. And all I can think about then is the times I’ve cried myself into dreamless slumbers; when I’ve held a mound of the strongest pills I can find; thinking about all the times where I begged for death in rare prayers made to the unlikely man in the sky. These thankfully rare days pass, however, and in those quiet moments afterwards I’m never more thankful that I’m still here breathing.
I’m so fucking glad I’m alive.
Mary Shelley goes up to the counter with her eccentric friend, who is wearing a lab coat. He wants to make his own drink out of the elements of other drinks - an espresso with hot chocolate, iced tea, whipped cream, caramel, pumpkin spice, mocha, and peppermint. “That’s too many seasons at once!” the barista cries. There is a flash of lightning. The espresso machine begins to move. The back room of the Starbucks is full of pitchforks.
Horatio goes up to the counter with two buddies of his. They all want to split a venti white chocolate mocha, and decide amongst themselves that since Horatio is the only one who went to college, he should do the actual ordering. Horatio orders. When he turns back around, everyone else in the Starbucks is dead.
It’s almost May, and I’ve not been kissed this year.
Update: Five months later and the situation hasn’t improved much.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats. A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.