Thursday, September 22, 2016

Muddled and returning

I've never been very good at keeping friends. Sure, if the strange lines and threads that pass between my life and yours so happen to intersect, we'll be fine, we'll do fine, it'll be fine and fun and dandy. But once those urgent reasons for us to know each other dissipate, so as well will our presence in each other's lives. Because I'm not good at keeping friends. That's the first sentence you read here and I don't know why I tried to elaborate on the point because it isn't even the main focal point of what I'm writing right now. Tangents and word wastage. So yes. I am not good at keeping friends. 

Which is perhaps the reason why my brain and I don't get along very well. The gravity around me, the things that keep your family and friends and job and dreams and life in place, well mine is loose or weak or wonky or wack and I can't hold anything to me, much less get a firm grip on something so slippery as my sanity. 

I feel like I've used a bunch of these sentences before. Rehashing, wrist slashing. It's a party!

Right, so, well, apparently the strength of my spinal cord and nerves is not enough to firmly anchor my head in place. Not that it's rolling on the floor, but it's definitely floating away. It's riding some sinking ship, sinking perhaps because it has an anchor much better at its job than my own, down down down under all the way into the far away and what I thought far buried land of depression again. And it's taking me with it, however I kick and scream and drag behind.

My brain and I used to be friends. I don't know when, my memory is kind of shot on this but I think I have pictures to prove it. In my baby albums, or maybe an ultrasound. We used to get along. Ideas would come and my fingers would create nice little diaries or knit things to give to my little brother or accomplish things that I could tell my parents about and everything would be good. But these sepia tinted memories are just that, long forgotten like my old myspace page. And as far back as needed to look to call this the norm, my brain and I, my moods and I, my mind and I, we have not been on the same page. Heck, we're not even reading the same book. We're in different libraries.

So now when my mind has an idea I let it sit because there is no messenger going from up there to down here and I don't get anything out of it but more disappointment in my own lack of action. Which leads to the action of more inaction and the misadventure of anxiety. Oh the places anxiety takes you. Ive only been out of the country once but I feel like I've lived 5 lifetimes full of worry. 

My body is fine and my life is fine and my world is fine but for some reason my brain didn't get the memo so now I am crying and wishing I was dying and making morbid little rhyming schemes to deflect from the fact that for the first time in years things are dark again and I've actually gone all the way to square one. Like a game of snakes and ladders and you step on that one damn reptile placed on the square right before you win and slide all the way down to the beginning. And I was about to win I was about to be a depression survivor and not I'm just depressed again. I should add it to my calling card. If I could ever fight the anxiety enough to be able to answer my phone when people call.

I don't know where I'm going with this, except maybe to try to say that the monsters are back. In many more words though.

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