It’s official. I’m depressed. I suspected it. The anxiety. The excessive working. The moodiness and walling up. Tonight my therapist confirmed it. I suspected. Friends told me. I didn’t want to accept it because I hate depression and the heinous effects it imposes on those who suffer it … and those who love them. But alas, it’s part of me. It’s in my blood, my bones, in my DNA. It will always be a factor. In the past few years I’ve learned to manage it. Through therapy, through exercise, life and love. It is as much a part of me as is the fun, goofy, silly prankster side.
Considering the fact that my Dad’s dying a long and ugly death, it’s not terribly surprising that I’m regressing a bit. I try not to let my funks infect/spill over onto the people I love. I try to keep them contained. I grew up in a home where other people’s funks dominated me. Made me feel shitty, inadequate. Made me question my wants, desires. Made me ashamed to be who I really was. For years I was ruled by that craziness, and I also subjected friends to it.
But that’s not me. That’s not how I want to live, who I want to be. I am tired of following the stupid rules society dictates. As I am witnessing now in my own immediate family, when you go 60 years living a life you didn’t want, it explodes. Like it did for Willy Loman. Like the Langston Hughes poem.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
I think of the saying, “As you live, so you shall die.” Might be from the Koran or the Tao Te Ching. Not sure. But I am sure I want to live off the leash much more than I am right now.