Swamp Walking

Depression is an insidious thing.  It doesn't announce itself with loud sirens or flashing lights, no signs hailing its approach.  Rather, it creeps, slithers, drifts into the corners and lurks, slowly building.

An ache here.

A sigh there.

Lassitude.

Mental haze.

A person is moving along through life, unaware of what's happening, until they are up to their ass in murky swamp with no exit on the horizon.  Everywhere they turn, more swamp.

It's all mosquitoes and mist alligators and chiggers and lonely-voiced frogs calling out their melancholy messages.

Some people can lift themselves out of the swamp and find the sunlight again, either on their own or with medication.

Some people sink up to their necks, then disappear entirely, lost to car exhaust or pills or sharp edges.

Some people pick a direction and start slogging until they are no longer hip deep in the muck.  I am one of these.  Day after day I pick up my basket of stones and wade through the slime, hoping to find firmer ground, a place to put down my load and rest a while.

Lately I have the feeling that there's not any solid ground out there - just occasional hummocks on which I pause before the swamp swallows them.

I'm tired to the bone of making the effort.

I keep going, but sometimes...sometimes I wonder why I bother.