There’s A Hole In The Sky

As most of you know, I live with clinical depression. I do what I can to keep the dark days — and nights — at bay. Medication helps, but needs to be adjusted over time. Without medication, I couldn’t survive. And sometimes I feel like I have to justify that to others.

“Oh, just change your attitude,” they’ll say.

“I just pull myself by my bootstraps and put a smile on my face,” some tell me.

“Just spend more time at the gym.”

Sorry, it doesn’t work that way. Attitude helps. A smile helps. Exercise helps. But they don’t cure clinical depression.

With the help of San Geraldo, I manage to keep the worst bouts from returning, simply by being aware and getting help when I/we see the patterns returning. What returns are the voices in my head. They tell me I’m not good enough (for what, I don’t know). I’m not handsome enough (for my life as a fashion model?), I’m not smart enough, kind enough, rich enough, confident enough, talented enough, humble enough.

On my good days, none of that even matters.

On my bad days, I’m simply not enough.

Lately, I’m not finding myself interesting enough, which explains my recent dearth of blog posts.

But, finally, rather than trying vainly to be enough for you (OK, for myself), I figured it was time to just tell you what’s been going on in my head.

The walks have helped. Usually about 11 km (8 miles) in 2-1/2 to 3 hours, with a day off between. Monday, it’s back to the gym. Really. No excuses.

This is what I saw on the walk home Friday…

And I wanna fly, too…

Dropping a Sock and Working on an Attitude

These last few days have been emotionally challenging — for no apparent reason except that sometimes the world just becomes too much for me. I can be very unkind to myself. This morning, as I was taking in some laundry — five pairs of socks and some underwear — from the clothesline outside the kitchen window, I tried to grab too much in my hands at once and one sock slipped through my fingers down to the courtyard below. The only access to the courtyard is through the apartment on the first floor and I hate to bother them since I know the other two neighbors are constantly losing clothing and clothespins that way (I’ve lost two clothespins). It must get really annoying. So, upon losing the sock, I lost “it” — fiercely gritting my teeth, biting my lower lip hard, and cursing myself out loud for my carelessness and stupidity. I didn’t lose one of Jerry’s socks (as if he would even care). I lost one of my own.

What I’m saying is I had a melt-down this morning. Over a sock. What I lost was an individual, casual, black GoldToe sock. I have perhaps two dozen (well now perhaps 23) casual, black, GoldToe socks remaining. Surely, it’s the end of the world.