Appalachia Year

The window in my old bedroom. Tough weekend up in my brain.

I've had grand fuckin' plans to get myself together for years. I must've always known I was sort of kidding, deep down. This summer I'll train for a triathlon. This school year I'll do the goddamn dishes instead of drinking coffee out of a soup bowl. In Athens, it's been easy for me to be a person. Running. Eating better. Eating less. Being organized. Managing my time. Getting enough sleep.

But depression is always there, even when it sort of isn't, even if it's mostly white noise. The most docile pet dogs will still draw blood if you surprise them. Just because they sleep in your bed and kiss you on the mouth doesn't stop that electricity in their nerves. They're cuddly, affectionate beasts, but still beasts. And it's more than a beast, it's a bitch. And I'm not sure whether people who haven't experienced it can ever understand. It's not just feeling down. When it's bad, it's jogging uphill through maple syrup with a hangover.

I know this. I know this. But still, I'm embarrassed that after a sunny, productive couple of weeks, I thought I'd somehow "beat it". Like it's a cold.