Dear Depression…

Posted: January 2, 2011 in Depression
Tags: ,

How come I don’t get stoked on the little things like other people?

I’m not asking for much, really. I don’t need to turn plastic bags into pirouetting ballerinas. This isn’t American Beauty we’re shooting for. I’d just like to get excited about Christmas lights the way I used to, or maybe enjoy a nice sunset. Or, at the very least, I’d like to not sneer dismissively when others try to point that shit out. Between you and all of OCD’s stupid rules, I can barely enjoy anything anymore. I’m like a crotchety old snapping turtle, dagnabbit.

To tell you the truth, it’s a little debilitating as a poet when you numb my senses like this. How can I pretend to be all introspective and deep and wise and shit if I can’t see anything beautiful worth pointing out? I live for the nuances. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love extremes, and I always will, but it’s subtle complexity that really yanks my crank, and for some reason I can only see or hear it these days when it’s tinged with sadness: regret, frustration, wistfulness, longing, abandonment, pain.

You turn me into half a person, you bastard. Half a writer. Half a soul. You know that glass poured up to the middle? That’s me. Everyone else is a full pint.

I’m going to kick your ass, Depression. Watch me. I’m coming for you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Up yours,

  1. […] You’d do me a big favor if you could occasionally just let me drop some thoughts. And if you’re not going to let me do that, then I’m going to have to kick your ass too, just like Depression. […]

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