I’ve been better, friends. I’ve been really depressed these last few weeks. One of the little threads of hope I’d been clinging to these past few years (that’s been helping me make it through the Hellscape) shriveled up and all-but died a few weeks ago, and I need to get this out somewhere before I shrivel up and die too.
One sunny afternoon on a Saturday, I was enjoying a beer on the back deck at Brown’s while overlooking the river. I was on top of the world and feeling fine. Then on Sunday, I was back to feeling down in the dumps; second-guessing myself and my good standing. And this wasn’t the first time I’ve experienced this emotional whiplash. Far from it. It was one time too many. The source of my downfall was fairly minor. A joke. A casual observation one could easily write off. It wasn’t even the comment so much as the pattern recognition that finally caused me to snap. Every time I get too comfortable, I get cut down and confused. I’ve written it off many times before. Made excuses. Told myself I was overreacting. That I’m too oversensitive and melodramatic. But for whatever reason that day, it hit me like a ton of bricks. That little hope I’d been harboring felt delusional and worse—unwise. A door somewhere inside of me slammed shut.
So I’ve been walking around in a depressed fog for weeks. Snapping. Stonewalling. My sentimentality doesn’t want to let go of that little thread of hope, but my head has finally clocked the realization that I’m spinning around in circles and going nowhere. I’m trying to keep some outward composure, keep moving forward and resuming normal activities, but I feel stuck.
Last night I started to feel just slightly better after a tasty Sidecar and some Roy Orbison—enough to acknowledge that the hope is only mostly dead, not all dead. But I’m in need of a miracle.
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