I know I've written quite a bit about depression of late.  I have an idea that it gts boring, reading about it, but in part I post because if there's someone out there who is looking for words, maybe mine will help...and if there's someone out there who is trying to help, maybe these posts will help...and sometimes I need to get things out of my head somehow, and writing about it helps.

So here's another thing about depression.

I had a pretty good day, today.  The Evil Genius is hanging with his father, and Someone offered to hang out with our daughter while I took some time for me.

I spent a few hours with K2, catching up and whatnot.

I found (thanks to K2) a new crochet pattern to try.

I came home and got some dishes done, listened to some music, had a bit of peaceful family time.

And all of a sudden, out of nowhere, for no discernible reason, I felt like I could cry.

In the middle of cooking dinner, I felt overwhelmed by sadness.

As the linguine bubbled in its pot, I felt a sense of futility.

As I stirred the mussels in garlic tomato sauce with white wine, I felt miserable.

As I seasoned and tasted the spinach, I felt empty and useless.

This is depression, the thief of joy, dimmer of color, taker of contentment.

It comes out of nowhere, flies back into nowhere, doesn't give a body a target to aim at, smashes and grabs and disappears, leaving a lingering greyness to life in its wake.

Nothing and no one can cure this.  It is to be endured, survived as best as can be, borne until it fades away for a brief respite.  It doesn't make sense, it can't be reasoned with, there is no logic to it.

I hate it.  I don't hate much or many, but depression?  Yeah...