the strange planet inside my head
Muffin's Registry
Netta's JamsBio
WordWebbing.com -- Spinning Words For Any Occasion
Read/Post Comments (9)
THE EMPIRE
Fine Websites
Fine Products By Fine People
Very Fine Publications
da do run run
not much to say, really. misery might love company, but there's no need for happy people to roll around in the mud.
****
i think that's part of the problem with depression. the tendency is to pull inwards, pull away, push away -- one, the energy required for regular interaction is just a tad more than i have at the moment. two, there's the feeling of, 'no one wants to see you like this.' legs unshaven, hair dirty and matted, sweats baggy, fingernails jagged and uneven. (i'm talking figuratively here.) the bed with four pillows and three blankets puts out a siren's call that's hard to resist, although the scream of daily responsibilities and the calls of loved ones has so far drowned it out.
****
and the need to outrun hurt. to just run and run and run until the beating of my heart is all i can hear; the haze of exhaustion blurring my sight so i can't see. i don't want to see. i don't want to open that door, i don't want to say what i can't say.
and yet, i do.
i did.
i did and now it's over.
i did and now it's nowhere near being over.
****
humor is a great crutch. it's an amazing defense mechanism. the trouble is, it becomes an exterior shell not only too thick to penetrate from the outside in, but from the inside out. it forms a floor, or ceiling, between one level and the next. it keeps things moving along without too much interference, at least on the upper floor.
oh, but that lower floor.
oh lordy, that lower floor. what a mess.
it reminds me of the house i lived in with my kids in new york. the two girls had tiny bedrooms which opened up into a larger room. two closets, one on either side. after the first six months of trying to keep up with the holy mess only girls can generate, i shut the door and left it.
when we moved, i had to open that door.
yikes.
it took me forever to clean it out.
yeah, that's what it's like.
****
and still the beat of, "Run, run, run!"
i don't want to run anymore. i'm tired.
i don't want to open the door, either.
one crack was enough for me.
and still, i see shining examples of what can happen when you finally do open the door and finally clean up the mess. i see the bravery of those who have not only accomplished this, but the generosity in sharing their experiences to try to help me on my path. i see the love, i feel their warm arms around me, baggy sweats, matted hair and all, and how can i let them down? if they believe, why can't i?
****
of course i know why i can't.
but maybe i can change that.
maybe.
Check out TSB for the most legal fun you can have with your clothes on.
****
i think that's part of the problem with depression. the tendency is to pull inwards, pull away, push away -- one, the energy required for regular interaction is just a tad more than i have at the moment. two, there's the feeling of, 'no one wants to see you like this.' legs unshaven, hair dirty and matted, sweats baggy, fingernails jagged and uneven. (i'm talking figuratively here.) the bed with four pillows and three blankets puts out a siren's call that's hard to resist, although the scream of daily responsibilities and the calls of loved ones has so far drowned it out.
****
and the need to outrun hurt. to just run and run and run until the beating of my heart is all i can hear; the haze of exhaustion blurring my sight so i can't see. i don't want to see. i don't want to open that door, i don't want to say what i can't say.
and yet, i do.
i did.
i did and now it's over.
i did and now it's nowhere near being over.
****
humor is a great crutch. it's an amazing defense mechanism. the trouble is, it becomes an exterior shell not only too thick to penetrate from the outside in, but from the inside out. it forms a floor, or ceiling, between one level and the next. it keeps things moving along without too much interference, at least on the upper floor.
oh, but that lower floor.
oh lordy, that lower floor. what a mess.
it reminds me of the house i lived in with my kids in new york. the two girls had tiny bedrooms which opened up into a larger room. two closets, one on either side. after the first six months of trying to keep up with the holy mess only girls can generate, i shut the door and left it.
when we moved, i had to open that door.
yikes.
it took me forever to clean it out.
yeah, that's what it's like.
****
and still the beat of, "Run, run, run!"
i don't want to run anymore. i'm tired.
i don't want to open the door, either.
one crack was enough for me.
and still, i see shining examples of what can happen when you finally do open the door and finally clean up the mess. i see the bravery of those who have not only accomplished this, but the generosity in sharing their experiences to try to help me on my path. i see the love, i feel their warm arms around me, baggy sweats, matted hair and all, and how can i let them down? if they believe, why can't i?
****
of course i know why i can't.
but maybe i can change that.
maybe.
Check out TSB for the most legal fun you can have with your clothes on.
Read/Post Comments (9)
Previous Entry :: Next Entry
Back to Top
