Depression, in someone elses own words

Depression, in my own words.

You can’t explain to someone who hasn’t been there what it’s like to wake up, and the black curtain of storm clouds have suddenly dropped around you. How do you face the people around you, silently mouthing to each other “again?”. How can you explain that the objectively irrational impulses seem subjectively rational? That you understand that you’re not OK, but there’s nothing you can do to change it, while the world goes on making demands as if you still felt “normal”.
Your partner still wants you to be able to be there for her. The kids still want to get hugs from you – and they still need to eat. The boss still wants you to output widgets. The bank still wants you to make payments on the credit cards you used to survive when things went pear-shaped last time. The landlord still wants his rent.
There are two ways things can go from here. Sometimes with a good night’s sleep (or two, or more), and some looking after yourself, things will be OK again, and you’ll pick up your stuff, and keep moving forwards.
Sometimes, things don’t get better. The wiring isn’t just on the fritz, it’s burnt out. If you ask for help, they’ll insist on chemical assistance. They don’t really understand quite why or how the chemicals work, but “they should help”. They might (will) have side effects. The cure might end up being worse than the disease. If that one doesn’t work, they have others. Or a cocktail of medications, each one to deal with the side effects of another. That way lies its own unique madness.
With the meds, they might prescribe talking. Lots of talking, in the vain hope that like the infinite monkeys with their infinite typewriters might turn out some Shakespeare, if you say enough words for long enough, everything might fall into place. Sometimes they’re good at listening, sometimes they’re not. With the right person, it helps.
Some sift your words carefully, picking out the little nuggets of truth that help you understand a little better who you are. Others nod, grunt, and write you another prescription. I’ve known both. And it’s expensive to sit in a little room and talk. When you’re in a situation where you need to sit in a little room and talk, there’s a good chance that you’re not in a position to be able to afford it.
Fortunately, for me, most days now resemble ordinary. I wake up. I stare at the face in the mirror worn with lines I don’t remember collecting, and stubble that feels like it belongs on someone older than me. I go to work, and try to fit into “normal” like a cheap suit that I bought in a hurry and can’t take back.
But occasionally, there are those days. Days where the mask is tissue-paper thin. Surviving the day is an act of will that leaves a lingering exhaustion that seeps into your bones. Like a drowning man in a flash flood, you wrap yourself around the hope that the waters will recede soon, and you’ll be safe and dry again.
At least until the next deluge.



--While I own the sentiment I cannot claim the words.
This was created by a creature called a Warwick on Wazzapedia

The Devils Drug

I seem to have a problem with some of the more basic human functions.
Ever since my teen years, I've always had insomnia.
Sometimes it is slight sometimes it just totally kicks my butt.
In fact, in the past 3 or 4 months I have been averaging maybe about 

2 hours a night.
That's from 3am to 5am and that's if I am lucky.
Not sure what was causing it but I think it passed last week.
I mentioned it to my doctor on Wednesday and he said "Hey! Try Ambien!"
My doctor really, REALLY likes his prescription pad.
I said "sure! I will give it a shot. I could use at least 1 good night's sleep."
He said "be careful though it can cause amnesia."
"Why the hell would you prescribe it for me then?" I thought but figured 

what the hell.
And what have I learned?
*ahem*
Ambien is the devil 

 This is what I would assume a roofie feels like.

I normally toss and turn and mumble and get up and basically turn the bed into 

the linen equivalent of one of those paint mixing machines you see at Walmart.
I took a 10mg pill on Wednesday night, oh about 8:30pm because hey, sleep!
And according to my wife flat out died.
Or basically I was an immobile sack of meat with a pulse.

Until, that is, Zeus started whining.
No, the Elder Greek God did not start complaining to me,(however I wouldn't 

blame him because Zeus sounds so much cooler than Jupiter but that's a different

 train of thought.)
No it was my daughters German Shepard that did.
So About 11ish I dragged my sluggish butt out of the bed and mumbling what I can

 only assume were Celtic magical incantations, because they were not words. 

Or English. Or even fully audible for that matter.
I let the dog out of his kennel and took him to the garage door.
Now here is where I must have not have been moving fast enough because as soon as 

I opened the door I was airborne.
The whole thing is kinda fuzzy so I do not know if I just tried to take a step 

and utterly failed at the simple act of walking
Or I was pushed out of the way by the furry lummox that is Zeus.
I am thinking it was the former but for the sake of ego, I am claiming the latter.
Anyway
I ended up on the garage floor and where my left foot was flat footed my right foot

 well I basically tried to stand on my ankle.
Yeah it is still bruised and painful.

From what I have pieced together I then went into the living room with the dogs

 and carried on a scintillating and intelligent text conversation with my daughter 

that was both witty and enlightening.
Yeah...
No.












I can vaguely remember typing on the phone but it's like looking through

 a Vaseline smeared lens

 and as for the typing I think it looked more like a 4 year old mashing piano keys

 than anything as dexterous as typing.

So as you can see kiddies, Just say No.