I have a blog because the writing exercise is supposed to be good for me. Well, that’s why I’ve kept the blog active even though I seldom write directly about politics any longer.
This summer has been an odd slog for me. It’s the first time since my official diagnosis (which is now changing, again, we think) that I’ve wrestled with actual depression. There’s been moments of sadness, of course. Times when you think “I can’t believe I can’t open a soda bottle without a TOOL anymore” or “If I break another dish, I’ll just give up.”
But it hasn’t been until this summer that I’ve actually found myself wondering why on earth I should bother getting out of bed. I don’t want to belabour the point because I know from growing up with depressed people that depression can be contagious and is not fun to read about. But it’s been hard. Especially the week before last. The week I stopped blogging. Because really, if you want to read blog entries about how awful the world is there are other places you can go that aren’t so me-flavoured as this one.
I’m finally pulling back out of the despair. Thank you, dogs and colouring books. (I know it sounds silly but whenever I get depressed, playing with colours helps me. A lot.)
Of course I stop writing when I’m depressed. No offense to William Styron, but I hate reading the ramblings of depressed people. Just kick me in the emotional nuts and be done with it. Don’t drag it out over vast numbers of paragraphs.
But I’m writing this because I need to write something right now and don’t know what else to talk about. So I’m talking about not liking to talk about this. Weird. Oh well. I warned you.