Blocks To A Quilt

When I don’t know where to begin, I just begin. The thoughts might not seem rational and my ramblings quite possibly sound crazy, but I’m not in any position to filter or judge right now.

While those gifted with talents beyond my comprehension can use symbolism and imagery to say what they need to say, ridding their minds of the beasts that claw at the brain, I am saddled to the need to exorcise my demons with blunt, vivid words. No pretty pictures here. No catchy melody where verses are laid out in order and only those willing to dig for meaning can find it. If you take the time to read what I write, you will know exactly where I’m coming from. You might not understand or have the ability to empathize with me, but that’s okay. Some of you get it, and for that I am dejected as well as grateful.

Depression is an asshole; that shitty kid on the playground that tells you that you are not good enough to be in some fictitious club with made up rules that are constantly changing to pacify said shitty kid. Depression is my constant companion who tags along, never even offering to pay for gas or pick up the tab. Like I said, asshole. I’ve fought back for most of my life, but now I’m tired; too exhausted to step into my role as “Generic Woman with Fake Smile.”

I would say that I am a high functioning depressive. I still get out of bed (mainly because I am an insomniac), I shower and attempt to dress appropriately, I go to work and I offer reassurances that I’m “fine.” I want to feel different. Normal. I really think that I would enjoy a day free of self-loathing and discontent; a stretch of time that involves surface thoughts and unicorns. A Gina-free vacation. But I’m pretty much stuck with me and I’m searching for a way to be okay with it.

Those afflicted with depression are a sensitive sort. We feel deeply, over analyze most everything, and rarely trust ourselves. Within this past year I have tried being more open and honest about my struggle. The reward that I have received in doing so has been some extraordinary friends who get it. They understand the lows that feel like black holes of emptiness. They don’t make moronic comments like, “pray it away” or some other unhelpful bullshit. They send me little words of encouragement when they notice that I’m just not quite myself (or when I am more myself than what is acceptable.) I try my best to return the favor when I see them slipping away too.

And to those of you who don’t get it… I’m glad that you don’t. But educate yourselves. Because I live with depression does not mean that I do not know how to have fun. It does not mean that I sit in my closet sucking my thumb, crying. It certainly does not mean that you have done something to cause me to be the way that I am. Most importantly, don’t try to fix me. That gets on my fucking nerves.

So right now I’m a bit like a robot. I am going through my days just doing what is necessary to get by. Minute by minute; celebrating the small things like crawling out from underneath the covers or consuming more than water, coffee and Altoids.

 I will share something I wrote to a friend who was trying to make sense of life, happiness and existing. At that time I had clarity and the words to address my thoughts so I took advantage of that window because, honestly, I never know how much time I have.

 Happiness is hidden in moments; moments of joy when our brains relax and gratitude is acknowledged. Happiness cannot be a permanent state of being which would negate all of its properties. It is blocks to a quilt that must be pieced together. The blocks are beautiful but the work required to fit them together is tedious and numbing. The end result is a work of art with the seams hidden and the threads clipped.