borrowing from Bukowski
Depression is the black dog that constantly nips at my heels. I've tried fighting him; I've tried giving in to him; nothing seems to have any effect. He's always there, despite my best efforts, despite the moments of lucidity that I occasionally have -- notably my fairly-recent post about the 10 ways to beat depression.
In those moments of hope and clarity, it seems as if he can be beaten. My most common experience of him, though, is that he cannot be beaten, that he is an inexorable and inexhaustible opponent. No matter what I do, no matter what I try, he will be there.
I am tired of this fight. I am tired of giving up, I am tired of giving in, I am tired of struggling and struggling -- to what end? What's on the other side? What am I struggling for? Some bullshit Pollyanna experience? Am I yearning to be enlightened, to be like one of those people with the perpetual smiles on thier faces? I think not. I would be satisfied with a reasonably happy yet realistic and rational outlook on life. Even a median level of happiness would be a step up for me.
I realise that in every day, every hour, every minute I have a choice of whether to give in, or not. I'm tired of making those choices; I want to move on to bigger and better choices.
It's funny how small-yet-meaningful things happen at the most opportune times. I was reading my friends' list here, and I stumbled across a post by beldar -- who I hardly know, by the way -- that said, in part:
The bolded statement on your userinfo page: "We are all survivors."Is that inspired by anything in particular, or refer to something specific?
I first wrote that statement in a TwoHeadedCat.comcolumn about my being a cancer survivor. I had Hodgekins lymphoma in 1994. It was caught in an early stage so was knocked out with six months of chemo and eight weeks of radiation. But it seemed odd that itwas just that, that defined me as "survivor." So many of us have madeit through disease or tragedy or abuse. But just the mere fact that weare breathing means that we are surviving. So I put that on the page as a reminder. I've been told that reassurance has helped others as well.
Hope comes from odd places. But I don't know what I'm going to do with that small shred of hope, especially when I have this annoying compulsion of shooting myself down when I manage to get a little happy. It's as if I feel I don't deserve to be happy. Or hopeful.
In those moments of hope and clarity, it seems as if he can be beaten. My most common experience of him, though, is that he cannot be beaten, that he is an inexorable and inexhaustible opponent. No matter what I do, no matter what I try, he will be there.
I am tired of this fight. I am tired of giving up, I am tired of giving in, I am tired of struggling and struggling -- to what end? What's on the other side? What am I struggling for? Some bullshit Pollyanna experience? Am I yearning to be enlightened, to be like one of those people with the perpetual smiles on thier faces? I think not. I would be satisfied with a reasonably happy yet realistic and rational outlook on life. Even a median level of happiness would be a step up for me.
I realise that in every day, every hour, every minute I have a choice of whether to give in, or not. I'm tired of making those choices; I want to move on to bigger and better choices.
It's funny how small-yet-meaningful things happen at the most opportune times. I was reading my friends' list here, and I stumbled across a post by beldar -- who I hardly know, by the way -- that said, in part:
The bolded statement on your userinfo page: "We are all survivors."Is that inspired by anything in particular, or refer to something specific?
I first wrote that statement in a TwoHeadedCat.comcolumn about my being a cancer survivor. I had Hodgekins lymphoma in 1994. It was caught in an early stage so was knocked out with six months of chemo and eight weeks of radiation. But it seemed odd that itwas just that, that defined me as "survivor." So many of us have madeit through disease or tragedy or abuse. But just the mere fact that weare breathing means that we are surviving. So I put that on the page as a reminder. I've been told that reassurance has helped others as well.
Hope comes from odd places. But I don't know what I'm going to do with that small shred of hope, especially when I have this annoying compulsion of shooting myself down when I manage to get a little happy. It's as if I feel I don't deserve to be happy. Or hopeful.