Cookie Compensation

I've been comparing my budding attempts at this blog to a couple of women's posts on facebook. They're really good. They combine details of their daily lives and somehow bring things around to a bigger picture, a more universal meaning. I don't think I'm there yet, or that I'll ever be. The wise part of me knows that I don't need to compare, and that we're all working at our own pace, with our own material. Then there's the other part. On a good day, I can tell that part to just shut up. I haven't been having a lot of good days lately, more like really stuck days. I have to trust that this, too, shall pass.

Meanwhile, I eat too many cookies.

Depression

They say depression is anger turned inward. If that's so, then I must be plenty mad. I've done very little to justify my existence lately. I suppose I can give myself a little credit for taking care of the parrot, but even she must be able to tell I'm not as enthusiastic as I could be about playing our usual games. I just want to go to sleep and wake up in a couple of years. I don't want to have to deal with this loss, loss of freedom, loss of control, loss of closeness with the people I care about. I'm tired of being afraid of a painful, lonely death for myself or others. This staying home, away from other people seems like a dress rehearsal for that kind of death, that disconnection. What loving memories can I store up against that day, should it come?

Looking at that paragraph, I can see the red flags, know

that I sound like I'm in trouble. Well, I am. But I'm not suicidal. I know that's no solution. So, no need to call 911. I'll wear the damn mask and wash my hands.