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.


“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.

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