[sigh] A Title Is Too Much Energy
Show of hands. Who out there suffers from depression? Okay, put your hands down - I can't see them anyway which leads to this question. How many of you are men? It's all right. Remember, I said I can't see you and no one else can either. You can see me though and my hand is up, which makes it real friggin' hard to type one-handed. I don't like the idea of admitting it, but because it's the way my head is wired, I've come to understand it's part of who I am.
Several years ago, I wouldn't have been able to make that admission which is typical for men. We don't like to come across as little sissies that feel sorry for ourselves. I understand what's going on with me right now, yet I'm still hesitant to write this because I'm worried it will come across as just whining. At the same time there's another part of me that says I should write this because it's being honest about who you are, and if there's one thing the world needs it's more honesty.
Truth is, I don't want to be honest with everyone. I would rather write some funny story than admit I have spent the better part of 6 hours lying on the couch staring at the dust bunnies on the TV stand and blaming everyone from the kids to the Roosevelt Administration for their lifeless existence on my credenza.
The thought of pulling out a Swiffer to eradicate them is too overwhelming for me to consider because it would require me to dust other hard surfaces in the loft out of obligation. Obligation, as a action is my enemy sharing a place in infamy on par with the Pol Pot and head lice. I don't want to feel obligated to anything or to anyone, and I refuse to utter it anymore because even the word itself has too many syllables to pronounce.
So I continue to lie on the couch and look at the rafters. It's the one place I don't feel [that "O" word] to clean. I can't see the floor needs vacuumed, the dishes need washed, or the bed needs made. Only joists and beams ten feet over my head. Ironically, this is how much I feel buried under by all the crap I'm supposed to be doing.
And now I have to title this post [sigh]. Show of hands. Who thinks I can do it from the couch? Oh ya? I like vodka too. Just because I can admit to being prone to depression doesn't make it suck any less.
Several years ago, I wouldn't have been able to make that admission which is typical for men. We don't like to come across as little sissies that feel sorry for ourselves. I understand what's going on with me right now, yet I'm still hesitant to write this because I'm worried it will come across as just whining. At the same time there's another part of me that says I should write this because it's being honest about who you are, and if there's one thing the world needs it's more honesty.
Truth is, I don't want to be honest with everyone. I would rather write some funny story than admit I have spent the better part of 6 hours lying on the couch staring at the dust bunnies on the TV stand and blaming everyone from the kids to the Roosevelt Administration for their lifeless existence on my credenza.
The thought of pulling out a Swiffer to eradicate them is too overwhelming for me to consider because it would require me to dust other hard surfaces in the loft out of obligation. Obligation, as a action is my enemy sharing a place in infamy on par with the Pol Pot and head lice. I don't want to feel obligated to anything or to anyone, and I refuse to utter it anymore because even the word itself has too many syllables to pronounce.
So I continue to lie on the couch and look at the rafters. It's the one place I don't feel [that "O" word] to clean. I can't see the floor needs vacuumed, the dishes need washed, or the bed needs made. Only joists and beams ten feet over my head. Ironically, this is how much I feel buried under by all the crap I'm supposed to be doing.
And now I have to title this post [sigh]. Show of hands. Who thinks I can do it from the couch? Oh ya? I like vodka too. Just because I can admit to being prone to depression doesn't make it suck any less.