Day 79


Flakes of rust floating away,

            decay of years gone by; still haunts the present

                        – the phantom that will not leave me alone.

Without the blackness holding on, without its enlightening rush, it seems quiet, but not calm.  This is not restful rest, this pins-and-needles, hyperawareness, over-thought feeling.  This is not letting go, this is getting through and it’s exhausting.  Sleep, rest should quell the fatigue, but I find myself more tired in waking up.  Could I just turn off the day for a day?  Could I ignore everything and just lay there?  Would I be serving evil in doing so?

There were times in my last year of high school that I’m sure depression set in, days when I didn’t want to leave my room or greet the world with even a “fuck you.”  Usually it was because of Dad’s drinking, or more specifically, Mom’s unwillingness to approach the subject as a family and my subsequent feelings of defeat and uselessness (therein lies the source of yesterday’s flinching: in teenage years fighting Dad’s alcoholism; in thinking I had an ally in my mother, only to realize she was playing both sides).  I would go days with only mumbling as communication, visible in the world and invisible at the same time.

It seems like such a sure precipice, a familiar hiding spot for the blackness – depression.  I see you hiding there, phantom…


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