Good afternoon, Gentle Reader. As warned, I felt myself sliding over the cliff into depression a few days ago. The passing of my uncle hasn’t done anything to help that, but, on the other hand, it hasn’t really done anything beside change the language in which I hate myself. Small consolation, really. I know that when I eventually, I climb out of this head-space, that my grief will be there, waiting, as patient as a groom at the altar.
Today’s adventure involves me being unable to sleep last night, and lying in bed with my mother’s dog from eleven last night until about an hour ago – three thirty p.m., local time – when said dog looked me dead in the eyes, and said “You can lay here and die, committing slow suicide with Netflix and Nicotine, or you can get up, slap some make up on, and take me for a damned walk.” So I did.
Not much of an adventure? True. However, I’m feeling a small bit victorious, for having put clothes on. I even managed a shower. I’m forcing myself to stay true to the point of this inane blog, and keeping the appointment I have with myself, to sit and collect my thoughts for a few minutes, each day, to try to tell a story, to hope to entertain, to try to get past my own shortcomings.
I also wrote an elegy for my uncle, this morning.
Despite the fact the fact that I can’t use a single positive adjective about myself at the moment, and feel truthful, I’m counting today as productive, and a victory.