Two months.


I had no idea it had been that long since I had last written. Man, does time scurry by without notice when you’re burying your head in “Supernatural.”

Fourteen seasons on Netflix.

Well, that certainly was time well spent.

 I haven’t written ANYTHING. Not a single word. No wonder I’ve been going batshit crazy.

Aside: I wonder who decided that guano was crazy? Why not dog shit? Or cat shit? Or cow shit, with those funny little mushrooms that grow under it? It seems that cowshit crazy would make a better saying.

 But I sank, because depression is like having concrete blocks in your oversized pockets and being thrown into the Mariana Trench. It would seem that my head would make surface level only for a crashing wave to push me back down again and into the riptide. I’m pretty sure my head dashed against imaginary rocks a few times.

 But today, exactly two months since my last post, I can see just a little bit of light. I can move. I can think.

Kind of.

 I’ve started digging my way out. It seems sometimes that I’m more burying myself and less moving toward getting out of the pit, but I’m digging.

 I saw a meme once (and damn if I can’t find it) that said something along the lines of: drink one glass of water. Take one walk. Write one paragraph. Read one book.

 A tiny step is better than no step.

 It started with a few weeks of forcing myself to do my physical therapy exercises in the pool. Then I began meditating for 2 minutes (2 WHOLE MINUTES Y’ALL!), then drinking one glass of water. Now my exercise time is doubled; I’m meditating for 5 minutes instead of 2. I’m up to a liter of water—at least more days than not.

 And I’m writing. A little bit. Five hundred words. Not a lot, but 500 words.

 I’m trying not to worry about tomorrow, trying not to count up how many words and how many minutes and how many liters of water if I continue this for 100 days.

 I’ve done them today. That’s good enough for me.

 I’m digging. Minute progress, yes, but progress nonetheless. 

Once I began stripping away the things I choose not to give a fuck about, I found that I’m left with the bones of what I do actually care about. When I am in the depths of depression, though, it’s awfully hard to scrape together enough care to actually do something.

 But when my eyes are open, I can see a LOT of bones. Bones that would make fossils from the Mesozoic, Triassic, and Jurassic periods combined look like the leavings from a chicken dinner from dinner on the grounds.

 From a very small church.

 Bones are scattered everything. I go from caring about nothing—well, not caring about nothing exactly—so much as insulated from the feeling of caring, the call to action to do something about whatever it is that I kind of care about—to caring about everything.

 I want to save the world. I want to hug all the kids, feed all the people, hug everyone who doesn’t get regular hugs. I want to make change.

 In everything.

 But I am frozen if I hop like a buzzard, moving from bone to bone without settling for a meal, I can’t change anything. 

 So I’m back to practicing. Practicing exercise, practicing drinking water, practicing writing, no matter how crappy it might be.

 If you’re struggling, hang in there. Find the next right action. Find something tiny that you can do RIGHT NOW. Not in the morning, not next Monday, but now. Something that will make you feel better, even if it’s only for a minute. Something that will bring you joy. Something sane.

 Don’t give up. Keep fighting. Keep struggling.

 Breathe. Fall down. Get back up again.

 You are not alone.


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