Deep blue funks

I had a cou­pla con­ver­sa­tions lately relat­ing to depres­sion.

I can’t write about depres­sion prop­erly. If I could form coher­ent thoughts about it, I wouldn’t be doing it justice.

To describe it would be too twee.

The con­ver­sa­tions I had with friends dealt with reac­tive depres­sion, that is, the con­ver­sa­tion revolved around the sit­u­a­tional cir­cum­stances (as opposed to say, bio­log­i­cal) that directly caused their depres­sive states.

Exem­pli gratia:

“I don’t know if I should hang on or let him go”

I don’t know either. The per­son that cares has left the room. Go out­side, make a left, and then a right, then straight on to the median strip and play in traffic.

I’m harsh because I know what I’d do given the same thing to face. Bleed­ing obvious.

If, for exam­ple, the sit­u­a­tion were some­thing I haven’t faced, or have faced but crum­pled in the face of it, my reac­tion might be some­thing different.

E.g.:

“I don’t know if any­one would accept me for this “thing” that I have”.

Stumped. Stone moth­er­less silent. Make lame joke and change sub­ject, such as, did you hear about so-and-so and her silly boyfriend problem?

And then there is Death.

The deep­est, dark­est and most des­o­late place to be, is to lose some­one to death. Your his­tory with that per­son is erased (and don’t tell me you have mem­o­ries, they count for fuck-all). That per­son does not exist. Has not existed. Will not exist. That is the grav­ity of this kind of loss.

And I will still make lame jokes, change sub­jects a hun­dred times, talk­ing about so-and-so’s and their silly bf prob­lem, because you’re still here.