January 12, 2008


I suffer from chronic depression. When you're a lanky, post-adolescent recluse with a screwy childhood, I guess it comes complimentary. It's kind of an on-and-off thing: one moment I'm bright and chipper, and the next thing you know the last two factors that are stopping me from killing myself is a lack of a firearm and a deep-seated fear of God. (Yes, there are other methods of self-execution, but medical studies show that a gunshot wound to the head is the quickest and most effective way to die). And right now I'm going through the same motions again, although now without much of the bells and whistles that was so prevalent during my teenage angst/emo years.

There are a lot of things that led me into this recent ticket to the dumps. Work, love, and a sense of personal lacking are the main reasons why, with the L-word taking up the lion's share. But I will no longer elaborate on these. Aside from the fact that I am a man who takes his privacy seriously, poking at one's emotional wounds will only make it heal longer. But nevertheless, the pain still heals at a snail's pace, and it tends to leave a scar in your mind. Sometimes I even wonder if I still have places in my brain which haven't been scarred at all.

So right now, in the same way as I treat most things in my life, I'm just winging it until it finally blows over. One good thing about having chronic depression is that it tends to get old over time, and you take it with much bitter stride. I even find it quite silly at certain moments, although I just wish I would stop thinking of shooting myself that much.

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