My life looks like a bunch of words that I have yet to find the right order for. Like a tangle of strings that once unknotted would not make a single thing. What use is string if you have nothing to tie together? Will the string be little reminders at my fingers for all the things I could not remember?
I am grappling with my insides the past couple of months. I have been looking at my hands waiting on them, and begging them to come up with all the right words that will make everything right. Not perfect, just right.
Depression is a strange thing because it does not always look the way we expect of it. Some days I am the little Zoloft bean glumly hopping from place to place with a cloud over my head. Other days I am strapping on my helmet to jump on my bike for a quick hit of adrenaline to distract me from the darker things. I have no words for what that really means, "darker things". Maybe I should call it a place instead. Because that is what it is for me. Depression is like a journey through the damp woods. You think that if you just turned around and came back the way you came, it would be alright. But the woods smell like home to me, the chill lulls me to a quiet surrender in my mind. And I have been day dreaming of getting lost in the woods for as long as I can remember.
I get up every day and I make myself coffee.
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