Not At All Right

I should be in bed. I should be in bed, asleep, because tomorrow I should get up early-ish, go to the gym, and walk.

I am not in bed, asleep. I'm not tired. I am tired. I'm not sleepy.

I feel a certain heaviness of being that bodes ill.

Depression is an achy spirit. A cavity of the psyche. Psychological cancer, crawling slowly, inexorably along until it metastasizes and devours the bearer.

For several hours, now, I have tried to catch up on the blogs I usually read, but for the last few days have skimmed sporadically because I am restless, angry, weary, irritated, worn, and maybe a little at loose ends.

Today I asked at the gallery if anyone knows an illustrator. I have decided that maybe self-publishing my trio of children's stories is the way to go. Not because I value them...because I am certain they aren't good enough, and haven't the heart to find confirmation of the sentiment in my mailbox, in an e-mail, in resounding non-response, silence.

Restless.

I want something. I don't know what. I want to be valued. To have value. To have the perception of value. Perception is everything.

Angry.

Lies, manipulation, judgement, accusation, promises made, promises forgotten, promises broken - politicians practicing business as usual, people buying their bullshit spiels and propaganda, blindly following, lemmings off a cliff (did you know that's based on a lie? Disney made the whole thing up!), hauling everyone else with them whether they will or no. This pill can make you thin (in the small print - but only if you also follow our diet of twelve calories a day and all the water you can drink without puking), buy it now. This machine will give you a body like mine (in the small print - but only if you use it more than the twenty minutes, three times a week and are genetically predisposed to look like me, and only if you also follow our special diet of negative six calories a day and have a good plastic surgeon), buy it for fifteen easy payment of your entire paycheck (oh, that's how it works - spend all your grocery money on the new clothes rack).

Weary.

Since I was a child of about six years, I've carried this burden. Some days. the load is light, and I don't notice it. Some days it is heavy and stinks of rot. I don't get to choose which kind of days I have, or how many. Not without medication. I cannot take medication or I am cut off from the spark. Creativity and misery share the same well, and if I would drink deep of the one, I must taste the bitter herb of the other.

Irritated.

Messy house. Cat boxes un-cleaned. Phone ringing. Trash. Bills. Bills. Bills. Sigh.

Worn.

Since I was six. It is bound to wear on a body. I'd like a quiet corner to cry in, please.

At loose ends.

How do I shake off ancient history, my albatross? I'm trying to let it go. I'm trying to find the roots, so when I chop the kraken-tree down, I get it all, leave nothing to sprout anew. I'm doing it alone, because no one else can. I don't want a new Shrink. I am tired of forever explaining the past, the complexity of it. Tired of listening to trite, unoriginal responses and insistent refrains of "medication, medication, medication". Aren't they supposed to listen? Aren't they supposed to perceive? How then, if they listen and perceive, can they tell me to cut off what sustains me? Thanks, I'll go it alone (well, with you, dear Internet, because one is never alone in the Blue Nowhere, is one?). Loose ends - in that between state of one project finished, and now what do I do with it? In the midst of many more projects, clicking away, incapable of stopping but uncertain of worth. Where do I go from here?

Old song, old dance. I know it's all a bit much.

Pay no mind - I'll be right as rain in a day or two.