Clinical depression is like trying to breathe with a collapsed lung: the harder you inhale, the more you're aware of the futility of even trying. After a few weeks, the decision to give up respiration altogether seems like a good decision, because after all, it IS a decision. But you soon realize the problem is that you don't die, you just continue to struggle for air in an unbearable atmosphere. Indefinitely.
And when you think you're finally asleep, you are awoken by the wet whistle of your damaged organ. Over and over and over. It keeps you company, but Depression is that dull, downward friend who has nothing new to say and will not leave; the friend who watches infomercials until the sun comes up; the unwanted guest who never varies.
Think of tepid graying rice. Think of the ache that doesn't hurt enough to be interesting. Think of an orgasm that's like a half-sneeze during August.
Poet Rodney Jones said of Depression: "If I thought my life had any value/I would have taken it."
It's the disease that you know you have when you truly believe you deserve it.
Peace.
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