Depression is a Rat Bastard.

Thought bubble that says, "Does anyone know where depression is? Because I'd like to punch him in the face."Internet, you already know I struggle with depression. I take medication, I try to take care of myself, and mostly I’m…okay. Sometimes I even feel pretty great.

I don’t feel so great right now.

Logically, I know I have the world by the balls. I’ve got a good job, good friends, a great kid, an awesome husband, and a supportive family.

I’ve had a ton of freelance work thrown at me this year, so for once I’m not broke.

And, as if that’s not enough, I’ve sold not one, but two books this year. TWO.

In short, I have not one damn thing to complain about. Not. One.

But logic has no place in depression. And I? Feel kinda shitty. Not spectacularly, I-can’t-deal-with-life-so-I’m-going-to-stay-in-bed shitty. But damn-it-I-really-don’t-want-to-deal-with-life-but-I-kinda-have-to-so-I-better-get-my-exhausted-ass-out-of-bed shitty.

I think you just read the world’s longest hyphenated word, which is not a sign of good sentence structure. But I can’t be bothered to care.

The not caring, it’s one of the many, many things that comes along with the depression train.

See also: self-loathing, self-blame, and general feelings of inadequacy.

It’s totally awesome (not really).

I started this post with the idea that I’d impart some nugget of wisdom about depression. But I’m not feeling very wise (see above).

I guess what I’d like you all to understand is that depression? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not something I can control. It’s not something ANYBODY can control. I don’t WANT to feel like this. Nobody wants to feel like this.

If I could wave a wand and make it go away I would.

But I can’t. I just have to slog on through the days, knowing eventually it will break, and the sun will come out again, and I’ll have the energy to do the shit I want and need to do. In fact, I’ll actually WANT to do things.

That’ll be pretty awesome. I know it will. And because I still know that? I know I’m going to be okay.

I’m going to be okay. Really.

But depression? Is the biggest rat bastards of all rat bastards. I’d really like to punch it in the face. Or balls. Wherever it would hurt the most.

How’s that for profound?










Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Comment *