Dementors

Demons from times before are making themselves felt. Weird, self-destructive yearnings resurge, and are beaten down by reading Geek Love. Loneliness presses. Bad poetry is written. Emptiness persists, and is assuaged by conversation. Malaise prevails, and life goes on.

I have called suicide hotlines twice in my lifetime. Both times I found myself reassuring the person on the other end of the line. I became so worried that they not freak out that I felt better to make them feel better. There's got to be something fucked up in that. At least it works.

I'm not sure how I feel about To Write Love On Her Arms. Their aim of suicide prevention seems unquestionably honorable, but I always hear about them from bathos-ridden teenagers who cling to the idea of being self-destructive to have a sense of self at all. Not to say that there are no truly self-destructive teenagers, but it seems to be emotion-porn in many cases. That said, these people need help. Much more so than functional depressives like myself.

I've never lived in thrall to my depression. Calling it depression is misleading, as that makes it sound like a brain problem instead of being down because shit happens. Shit happens, I get down, I fix the shit, I feel better. Bada bing. There is nothing more infuriating than being treated like a crazy person for being down because your DNA is fucked. That seems like a legitimate thing to be pissed/sad/down/depressed about. That said, being depressed fucking sucks, so I try to avoid it. 

I've learned to live with my dementors. And chocolate does help.