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shiny objects

Thursday, October 07, 2004


So the latest bout of depression is over; love has ablated my desolation. Once again, my skin smells of life, and I am saved.

Sometimes I feel as if it would take less effort to lie down and stop breathing than to struggle on. This week, I held my breath a moment too long.

Too many people react to depression as if it were a weather phenomenon - board up the doors and windows, give it a few days to beat its rage against the earth, and in no time you'll be right as rain. Not so. It's a cancer. It's a psychic tumor thriving on your lifeblood and swelling at an exponential rate. And although it can be treated, there is no cure.

Treatment hurts even more than the affliction itself. You must excise the sickness - strip your brain to its simplest layers, forcibly pry depression's germ from between your synapses, and then flood your veins with poison until you're nauseous, until every metasticized fragment has been weakened.

Thanks to love, I am in remission. Without my friends and mother, I would no longer be.


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