You know it in your stomach when you wake,
Almost like hunger but a different feel--
Like being driven by the winds of hell
Forward and forward and forward until you break
Or want to break, but anxiety won’t allow
A total breakdown, it would lose its grip.
Content yourself with the almost trembling lip.
Know you can live in any time but now.
Time future runs ahead, you eat its dust;
Time past is pure regret, paralysis.
And all your hours of self-analysis
Can never re-create a basic trust.
You wonder if as an infant it was better;
Not if your mother raised you by the letter.
Three steps forward, two steps back, so it is in my sputtering depression. Yesterday I took a turn for the worse. I don’t know why. My medications didn’t change. I suspect the change to standard time had something to do with it, as contrary to the usual symptoms of depression, which get better at night, mine got worse. Driving home from my html class I really felt like weeping but what for? For bad chemicals? They don’t deserve my tears.
I had planned to go fishing today but don’t feel safe in leaving home. It’s good to be near Kathleen. Oh, I can take the heroic route and force myself to fish, but there would be no pleasure in it save the knowledge that I can do nearly anything while depressed, but I know that already. It’s just a matter of the psychic price one must pay. Often an activity can briefly lift you out of yourself, which is good, but my computer class last night filled me with anxiety about all the things I don’t know and how hopeless it appeared that I shall ever be able to construct a rudimentary web page.
I’m tired, I’m confused, I fear falling down the mineshaft again. I’ve never had such a rocky recovery from depression. Usually I just flip out of it when the meds kick in. I’m tired of living with it. I’m tired of anxiety and hopelessness. I’m tired of getting my head above water for a few days and being dunked back into it. Depression truly sucks.
I know it’s Halloween today, which marks the end of the month, a month in which I’ve written a sonnet nearly every day as part of my mental toilette. Perhaps an interested reader can suggest whether I ought to persist in sonnets or change the form for November. I am not trying to write great poetry, simply a sonnet a day to bolster my sanity.
At 3 Kilorats,