I keep meaning to sit down and write that blog post about how tired I am of my depression and physical issues ping ponging off each other and delaying my inevitable success as a ____________. But I have issue-fatigue, and am instead listening to David Bowie while my toddler bean naps in his chair right next to my desk. I really do not have time for this, as funds run out at the end of this month, and pleas of "I'm not doing this for money" fall beneath the inevitable grind to pay for rent and all that stuff. And yet.

Here i am, sharing it with you. Not sure why, I have no real idea of who reads this and who just flicks a glance at the pager and moves on. Ninety percent of my followers on Twitter ignore my tweets, and most friends on Facebook do too. It used to be different, back in the day (circa 2009) when I spent all my time talking on Twitter. Not tweeting, not broadcasting. But talking. 

That's a weird disconnect, because as a fairly severe shut-in hermit, the internet is really the only medium with which I communicate with the vast majority of people I know. I'm also keenly aware of the weirdness of being a long term out of work mentally ill shut in trying to make it as a writer...it's a strange flavor of insane, and a very lonely trip, despite my spouse, the kiddo, and my mom doing the best they can to keep me "present."

I’ve refrained from posting much about it on my blog and the other places I talk, because while there is a trend for “talking about depression” there is a very real pressure from many sides to “stay positive” “don’t focus on negativity,” and to “surround yourself with positive people.” And it’s BORING. No zombies are breaking down my door when I blog about depression, cyborgs stay mostly fictional and removed, and not a single alien has landed on my lawn in their starship.  Depression isn’t sexy, it’s not cool, and it’s a real mood killer. 

It is also my everyday reality, whether or not people read about it or not. It’s something me and my therapist struggle with (And he sees me free of charge, bless his heart) in my bi weekly sessions. But there it is, every morning, like a razor’s edge. Every day is waking up, staring at the beast in the room, that monster called depression, and his side demon-minion physical illness, and deciding to fight it, or failing. 

I fail more often than I’d like to admit. Maybe that’s what’s changed the scene. People get tired of Eeyore’s braying. I certainly do. It’s no wonder my Twitter feed has fallen silent. I don’t blame them. The problem is of course, i crave human contact, despite my brain’s inability to help me  leave the house whenever I would like to. I crave talking to friends, learning about strangers, and most of all, I crave a day where I don’t wake up telling myself I have to ignore the suicidal urges,  a day where instead, I just wake up functional and free of mental problems, 

The trick is, to keep on fighting the depression monster. Even if I fail as a writer, or as any sort of remotely employable human being in a society where one’s value and dignity is based on their ability to work, to make, to create, to do something, I will get up and try. 

If you’re brave enough to have read this whole splatter of strangeness, thank you, and apologies. I understand the world owes me nothing at all, and thank you deeply for spending some of your precious time reading this.  It really helps.

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