The Black Hole

Let me apologize ahead of time here, this is about depression. DUH!

If you read my blogs you know I suffer from it. Well the one I'm in now is not the suicide one, yes I am quite grateful for that! It is the I don't want to do anything, what's the point kind.

Yesterday I actually said "out loud" at the food market "what's the point of buying food everyone just eats it and then you have to buy more" Perhaps this is due to my financial situation which is rather bleek. But really isn't that a stupid thing to say?

I sit and feel guilty that I'm not being creative, so I force myself to do something creative that I loose interest in in fifteen minutes. Which makes me feel like a loser. I lie on the sofa watching some movie that I don't even enjoy because I think of what I SHOULD be doing.

I jot down numerous ideas and sketches of things I want to make. Which is where they stay...

in the notebook.

I need a miracle cure. I think you call it love.

In a Single Bound

I fold an Eggo, pour syrup in the middle and eat it taco style in three bites at the kitchen sink. 

I slurp, cat style, the entire cup of Kozy Shack pudding just with my tongue.

Using a few long pretzel logs I devour a bowl of ice cream.

I peel the entire banana before I eat it, any other way looks crude.

I eat Mallomars whole and suck Whopper Malted milk balls in my mouth until they dissolve.

I chew licorice free hand while I'm driving. 

When I get to the end of the Custard Ice Cream cone after I've made sure each little square is filled with ice cream... I shove it into my mouth in its entirety.

Why?

Because I enjoy the challenge.

Please Don't Send me Flowers Anymore

Towards the end of the relationship when you were not willing to admit defeat, while you were still hopeful.
Each Friday afternoon I would open my door and you would be standing there with flowers.

I had to carry the flowers home, so everyone would see what a wonderful guy you were. All I could think was, if you gave them to me on a Monday it would brighten my office all week. Now I have to drag them home, on the train, hope the cats don't knock them over in the vase, and then throw them out after they wilt and die.

I told you I didn't like gladiolus, but you continued to buy them anyway. Who were you buying them for?

I dated a young man who bought me carnations each week, the kind they dye different colors. I was such a romantic I would press each flower from the bouquet in a book, lay them out on a piece of colored cardboard and frame them. I had the framed flowers in my room until he broke my heart. Then I replaced the flowers with magazine covers that Woody Allen had appeared on.

Flowers are lovely, but they die. 
I used to think it was wrong to cut them and put them in a vase.
Truth is they die on the bush, the stem or the vine just as quickly.

Maybe better to just draw me a picture.

Death in the Title

In the book of life people die everyday. The young and the old, the sick and the healthy, the rich and the poor. We all live to die. I have fantasized that if I was ever given a specific "sentence" I would use my credit cards to travel and buy stuff for people, but would I? I think I would sit around and watch sad movies and not answer my phone.

Death effects the survivors, not the dead, that is why it is so tragic when a young person dies. We loose the privilege of seeing who they would have become. Parents are childless, children become orphaned and we question over and over again why.

The chapters of my life have been filled with death since I was a child and I have come to accept it. I can't remember the last time I cried when someone died, but I can still see my Grandmother throwing herself onto the grave of my Father.

I think people who outwardly show the most suffering are the ones who inwardly feel the most guilt. I'm not judging, nor am I saying to be so demonstrative as my Grandmother was, equals guilt. I just think that those who are able to express love to the living seem less likely to grieve so dramatically when they're gone. It seems they need to prove their love to themselves and anyone who will pay attention. It makes me sad.

I will be cremated, I want no service. I want to leave quietly while people are just going about with living. If you want to say something to me, say it now. Waiting helps no one.

We'll both regret it but I'll be dead, so you'll be the bigger loser.

The Elephant

There was a young man who could make his hand walk and talk like an elephant. Well, in reality his mouth made the elephant sound, but it didn't really matter. The elephant would walk across the table, lift it's trunk in various directions and heights as if to smell the air for your presence. Once it found you it would sniff and make funny noises and somehow emote joy in the find.

Not every person lacks the inhibition it takes to enjoy this form of play. Luckily for me I knew someone who could. This small gesture would always make me laugh and lift my spirits. I'm sure the elephant grew tired of performing, as did the young man.

One day the young man put his hand in his pocket and got up and left. It must be stressful to achieve the same level of excellence day in and day out. Perhaps someone stopped believing in his worth so he stopped believing too.

Small gifts like this are precious.

As a child I saw real elephants dressed in silly outfits doing tricks at the circus.
I know I did because my parents told me I did.

I have no memory of those elephants.

She, Me, We

To look at us, you would see no common ground. She is tall, I am small. She is young, I am old. She is black, I am white. It has been four years now that we have shared our office space and our lives.

When I first met her, I was a bit intimidated. She is very strong and firm in her beliefs and proud of her culture. Unlike myself. I will not discuss religion or politics, and am quite secretive about my families beginnings and traditions.

Sharing a small space day in and day out leads to intimacy. We tell stories, new and old, funny and sad, and marvel at our similarities. Stories of family, men, betrayals, dreams, children, travels, experiences. Stories of life.

She has much more faith than I do, she believes her body and spirit need to be nourished, she believes in a higher power. I find her inspirational. I am the older one, she calls me "wise" but I still don't know what I believe in.

I do believe friendship is a gift. I do believe that people come and go from our lives for a reason. Whether this women is here to teach, comfort, or guide me. I love the way she says things and the way she thinks. We make each other laugh as the days pass. Some days she calls me foolish, some days I call her the fool.

She is my friend. Forever.

Hard to See

A hand full of people can see it in my face or hear it in my voice, but for the most part it is invisible.

Holidays are a hard time to hide it. I try, but at a gathering you will usually find me silent in the same
spot I sat or stood in since I came through the door. When I try to add to conversations my voice is
not heard, when I walk toward the middle of the action, I am not seen. My small steps become big failures and I retreat, 

I am alone, but not by choice. It's similar to the scene in the movie where someone is at the end of the corridor and the hallway grows longer and longer. If I made it to the end and opened the door I would surely fall into oblivion. This thought gives me comfort. 

People that don't suffer from depression don't understand it. They think it's weird, and it is. It overwhelms me sometimes unexpectedly. Even if I know what brings it on it doesn't mean I can control it.

Next time you see someone sitting alone or silent take two seconds to acknowledge them. So they don't start believing they are invisible. 

Feeling invisible is a side effect of depression. If you don't exist, you cannot be loved or appreciated, heard or validated. You feel as if you don't belong, you are not necessary. 

A simple look, smile, wink, touch, or word can make a difference.

Feeling unnecessary leads to hopelessness and despair.

I will be here when you are ready.