Warning: This post contains strong language, mention of death/suicidal idealization and all around depressing content. This started off as a free write that I wasn’t going to publish but I obviously changed my mind. I figured the release would help me out. I also surmised that I could help someone dealing with similar issues realize they’re not alone. Nonetheless, I warned you.
Writing is like sex. You get the urge to do it all the time but the opportunity to scratch that itch isn’t always available. If you’re depressed, like me, that opportunity is rare because you’re too busy drowning in self-loathing to pick-up a pen. It’s 2 a.m. and I’ve had two homemade drinks to shake off the funk that’s slowly descending upon my consciousness. It lurks until it catches me slippin’ and spreads across my mind like mold. It hovers over me and makes the simplest shit seem like quantum physics.
Did I put on deodorant?
When was the last time I bathed?
I need to wash my hair.
Damn, where did all of this clutter come from?
I turn my attention to the news. Sandra Bland died after a supposed suicide. Stephanie Dorceant and Nandi Allman, a Black lesbian couple, have been attacked by an off-duty cop. Ashley Diamond is still being tortured in prison.
What the fuck do I have to be sad about?
I’m starting to loathe my job but at least I’m not in prison.
I’m single and hate it but at least I don’t have to watch a girlfriend take a beating from a cop while the word “dyke” permeates the air.
At least, I’m not dead.
Wait, is that a good thing?
My flesh says yes but to my brain, the jury is still out. My brain craves the escape that comes with death but my flesh is too nosey and stubborn let me give up.
I don’t want to die. I want this sadness to go away. When I feel happy, I wonder if it is genuine. When I’m excited, I worry that it might be the mania I’m supposed to be watching out for.
I don’t know.