Do I love life? Yah. I absolutely love life. Does my own mind make me want to basically get hit by a bus from time to time? Well, yah, it does. Shitty, right? Right. It’s pretty rough. Brutal. Just completely and totally unparalleled brutality.
And I’ve dealt with the beast long enough to know that when it’s happening that that’s really just my unhealthy brain talking. And it is what it is. And that’s okay. My own brain is trying to make me want to back out of life, to isolate myself.
And you know what’s weird? You know when I realize that I love life the most? It’s when I sit on an airplane. Because when I sit on an airplane I picture myself dropping out of the sky. And I don’t like that thought. Nope, not one single bit.
I picture another plane crashing into me 34,000 ft in the air. Also, don’t like that thought. Not at all.
And I wouldn’t consider myself a fearful flyer. It’s just, how can you be this high in the air (I’m presently on a flight) and not contemplate your own death?
And so, even when my depression yells to me in it’s creepy, screechy, little skeety voice and tells me it’s impossible to keep moving. I tell her to back the fuck up. Because I love life. I love life more than I hate depression.
I love the sun on my face. I love to laugh. I love to love. I love to make love. I love to smile, and lend a helping hand. I love the ocean. My parents, my family. I love food. And music. And my fiancée. I love swimming, and skating and building snowmen. I love travelling. Summer bonfires. Midnight adventures. Dancing. Dancing in the rain. The moon. The moon on the water. My nieces. My nephews. A little hand in my own. I just love life.
And I’m generally happy. I’d say I’m happy about 75% of the time. A little off about 25% of the time and well, terrible the final 5% of the time.
But what’s 5% compared to that 75% or even that 25% when I’m basically pretty okay.
And you know, lately, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking of just making friends with depression. Just giving her an open invite to wherever I go. She’s going to tag along, like an annoying little brother anyway.
Maybe if I invite her she’ll be a little less of a torment? Maybe she’ll go play with herself, or do whatever depression likes to do. Sit alone, and wallow and suck.
So yah, I’ll keep my friends close, but perhaps I’ll keep my enemies even closer. Who knows, perhaps an open invitation will scare her off? Lord knows, depression does much better with you on her own, than when you’re surrounded by all the things you love.