One of the things that I promised myself when I started this blog was that I would never be afraid to write about the complete shittiness of depression or grief. If you are wondering why I would be afraid then you have never applied for a job knowing that you will be Googled. Or maybe you've never has so few good days that you don't want to ruin one by thinking about why you have so few good days.
Here are two amazing pieces, posted yesterday, on what happens when life is something you suffer through rather than live. Improvising a Bone Graft by poet Nikki Reimer is deft examination of public grief and private pain. Let's just say that I identify: I loved my brother with a fierceness that is not ashamed to stand
howling and naked in the middle of the road, and what I miss is the
material essence of him. The only thing in the world that I want, and
can’t have, is my brother’s arms around my shoulders, his infectious
laugh, his shit-eating grin, his middle finger pointed at me in response
to sisterly teasing. His “jerkface!” in response to my “jackass!”
Depression Part Two by Allie Brosh is both a hi-lar comic and the most apt description of chronic depression I have ever read: Months oozed by, and I gradually came to accept that maybe enjoyment was
not a thing I got to feel anymore. I didn't want anyone to know,
though. I was still sort of uncomfortable about how bored and detached I
felt around other people, and I was still holding out hope that the
whole thing would spontaneously work itself out. As long as I could
manage to not alienate anyone, everything might be okay!
You might want to read the first part first. Check the dates of the posts to get a sense of the cyclical devastation even those who are treated experience. Wait, that doesn't sound funny at all! I promise you will laugh (or at least approximate the sound with your mouth).
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