Yesterday was pretty damn bad. I was fragile and frightened, almost unable to make any decisions. Nevertheless I drove Kathleen to work at 5:30 AM, went online at a coffee shop in order to download updates, washed the car and vacuumed inside, picked up a fuse for my amplifier and bought a pair of used overalls at the car parts store, made sun tea, did the dishes, fussed around the garden, picked Kathleen up from work, went shopping with her (choosing types of bread was pretty overwhelming), renewed a book at the library and returned two others, prepared and mailed off child support documents to have my false arrears reduced by $2500, and sent two more essays off to a print journal that just took one. Afterwards watched part of the All-Star game at my neighbor's, interspersed with the movie, "Playing God," which diverted me. (We don't have TV and we need one for my mental health.)
These don't quite sound like the activities of a depressed person, do they? But that's the point. No one knows unless I tell them. Just like a light-skinned black in the 50s, I'm "passing." But "If my thought dreams could be seen, they'd probably put my head in a guillotine." --Dylan
I am an alien but I look human. I come from the land of deep darkness where shadows pass for light. The tail of my whirlpool has no end, it just gets smaller and smaller. My cells are dying as I speak. I am death walking. I am a mannequin propelled by tears. But I pass. One thing I do is to avoid eye contact; I find that extremely daunting. I don't want anyone to look in my eyes and vice-versa. "The eye is the window to the soul," quoth Jesus.
I won't commit suicide no matter how many people despise this blog. Because they couldn't despise it more than I do.