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10:56 a.m. - 2016-02-25
Reflections are deceptions,
the shape of truth but not truth
in shiny bathroom tiles that make foes of hanging robes
in silvered glass which warps at the same rate
as my slackening sallow face
which I cannot say I have ever actually seen.

This is a post about depression, which is as fictional as love and as easily defeated as a shadow.

This is a post about being overdramtic as a lifestyle, as well. Bear with the sophmoric.

So, it’s still hard for me to admit that I am depressed. I have a better job now, but I’m not doing it and I’m going to lose a good opportunity if I don’t do something about my problems. Part of the issue is that I don’t want to disconnect from this opportunity even though my wife wants us to uproot to a low-lying seaport with earthquake tendencies which will be innundated by the time our children grow. (Unless we’re all wrong. And we are often wrong…) I want to be there, not here. Here I’m slowly eating myself to death and hiding from alternating cold and sun. Here the enviroment steals my breath and makes even the most enjoyable interactions implausible.

But there I will be doing all of that. She thinks she won’t be judged there but she will, even harsher. She thinks just because our friend rose the the pheonix there that she can as well. She is unaware of just how much damage being with me has done. There is little escape from my doldrums.

However, I don’t belong here either. I can help people, but my will to do so sublimates like Martian surface water. Here I could pay my loans in a few years, buy a house. But never actually live. No one wants my suffering, and that’s our only export. Also my last-minute brilliance, the fruits of procrastination, my secret self Paprika, no one ever wants that. There is no situation in which someone like me is preferable to someone who can steadily work through what is needed toward success. I’m not a writer because that takes effort. I’m not a stockbroker because that takes effort. I’m not human because that takes real consistent effort. I’m not flashpowder, like my friend. That ignites. Confronting depression requires betraying Paprika. Losing this specialness that lets me conjure from nothing adequacy in half an hour is heartbreaking. Feeling the acre of anxiety and incapacity to abate it which comes before? Priceless.



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