Depression is a Duplicitous Asshole.

Everyone battles something. Some of these battles are episodic and some rage over the course of a lifetime. Many of these battles are so private that they happen without anyone else even being aware of them taking place.

Today I learned that a man I respected for his ability to share himself so publicly died. His depression had reportedly been growing in severity and yet he still entertained. And I felt the harshest of reminders that just because someone is bold enough to speak openly about struggling with a disease, they are far from free of it’s grip. Just because someone’s job is making us smile, it doesn’t mean they are carefree–it just means they are very good at their job.

Drifting Beyond The Pale

My mother is adamant that I was distraught the evening my father committed suicide. I have no recollection of that. She insists I continued to be very upset the next day. I have no recollection of that either. In my mind I was stoic, calm, in control, but the events during that time don’t exist in my memory on any type of continuum or even as full scenes. Rather they are present as moments that stand out against a blurry backdrop, so it is possible she is right.


Silence Over Coffee

If instead, I told you I had a cancer would you still sit, biding your time, waiting for me to heal? Would life carry on in your view of us as each day my body was divided, conquered, one weakened cell after another? If instead, I could show you spots or unnatural shadows on an X-ray film and say here and here and here that is where it is, that is where I am slowly dying, would you still simply pat me on the head and say “Now,