It’s been seemingly forever since I’ve posted. I’ve a few drafts that never managed to get published. I’ve wondered why I can’t seem to find anything to say. To be truthful though, it’s more that I’m embarrassed and ashamed of what I have to say. I’ve been depressed again for the last few months. Some days are ok, but most aren’t. My life continues to go on, but I feel like I’m asleep in the passenger seat or on a ride that nobody else can see full of dark and winding trails. So, there it is. I’ve been fighting it will all of my being and yet I feel somewhat defeated. I feel like I should be doing better. I take my meds consistently; I never miss a dose. I follow the advice and do the things I’ve been taught in therapy when things get bad. I survive. Actually, survive is generous. I exist. I’m baffled by this. I feel like an entitled prick. I have a wonderful marriage, a great job, we just bought a house and aside from a few things, am in good health, yet I have the audacity to be depressed. How dare I? What the hell do I have to be depressed about? Anything bad that’s happened happened long ago. It’s been dealt with and talked to death in therapy.
I don’t really know what else to say. United changed my damn gate again, so I get to go trotting across O’Hare again.