Making Piles

Depression bites, for the obvious reasons.

If I have to be sad, I wish it at least had a cause, some sort of rhyme or reason I could point to as the source of the heaviness.

I have a good life: a beautiful-wonderful-charming partner who loves me and does the dishes; a big family that hasn’t disowned me yet, despite my Cubbery ¹; friends who have my back, even if they never answer the phone on the first call; a comfortable home and enough food and reliable access to Internet; a now fully-funded education; cool as shit jobs; daily opportunities to make life easier for myself and for those around me. Sometimes things are hard, but I was blessed with the gifts of bureaucracy navigation, form completion, and number crunching, so things generally fall into place, with or without a hullabaloo.

I have the whole world, and I still feel like I’m trying to walk through a big bowl of Jell-O. Small issues and inconveniences feel like the sky is falling. I am Chicken Little, but less prone to making children smile.

Whenever the Doomsday Drop happens, I scramble to find something poetic in the ashes of my perfect life, but there is no poetry when the fire didn’t happen and the debris isn’t real. My life is still pretty good, and I am still, as always, tragic, sans Plath-isms.

It doesn’t help matters that I don’t have depression.

I swing wildly from the upper regions of the atmosphere to the depths of the sea with little-to-no notice before the drop or rise. One minute I consider myself the worthy adversary of God himself, and the next minute a caterpillar could push me over.

I’m trying to take less notice of how I feel and pay more attention to what I’m doing. I think, maybe, I give my feelings too much space and my thoughts too little. Or maybe I give them both too much space and need to make some more room for just empty space. Or maybe I should drink less coffee and more herbal tea and call it a day.

For brief minutes, I feel neutral. Sometimes my feelings don’t have feelings have feelings have feelings. Sometimes, I just am, but it’s fleeting. I love those moments in between, where things just are and I can just be. 

I wish there were some sort of Marie Kondo method of mind that would minimize, shrink, throw things out, repeat. ² I wish I could automate my psychological paring down with Python, skipping the redundancy of making my grief piles and cleaning them up and jumping straight to a generalized sense of order and well-being, but that’d be too easy.

And then we’re up, and then we’re down.

But we’re always moving forward.

[1] Go Cubs Go!

[2] The next person who tells me to try meditation, yoga, kombucha, nature walks, bubble baths, painting, running, aromatherapy, acupuncture, massage, therapy, medication, knitting, epsom salts, learning an instrument, soap-making, being busier, being less busy, long drives, short vacations, or otherwise offers me unsolicited advice about what can *~free my mind~* is getting a boot up the ass. Believe me, and other mentally ill people, when we say that we have done The Things, The Things are not fool-proof, and we are the fools that break them down. kthx


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