Journal

Depression is a thief. It steals things from you but leaves something else in its place so you’re not really sure what, if anything, is missing. A very clever thief, but a thief nonetheless. It steals my sleep and leaves anxious fatigue. It steals my appetite and leaves hunger. It steals ambition and leaves apathy. It steals my words and leaves empty thoughts. It steals my memory and leaves bewilderment. It steals my intellect and leaves stupor.

I go through all the motions of life without knowing why and without the benefit of enjoying the fruits of my labor. People ask me questions and I don’t have the answers. I feel like I’ve had some sort of lobotomy. I’m sort of here and sort of not. Interdimensional.

I should be feeling great. After a brief winter storm last week, spring-like weather has returned. I get out every day, I like the sun, but I don’t enjoy it. The other day I walked over to the Lamberton Conservatory at Highland Park. There are half a dozen different environments in there, plants from all over the world. I hoped it would perk me up for a while. It was ho-hum. I walked home sullen.

On the way home from the Dislocated Workers Program today, I should have been ecstatic between the weather and the fact we’ve finally got a program in place. I felt empty. Still do.

I’ve been a pretty good boy so far. No coke, no pot, I did get drunk at karaoke Saturday night, something, anything, for a change of pace. I composed what I thought at the time was a pretty good journal entry while I was there. It was gone by the time I got home.

I made a pot of stew last night. I ate half a bowl, gave most of it away. There was plenty of gravy left, so tonight I added more meat, carrots and potatoes to it. Tastes fantastic, perhaps the best batch yet. I can’t eat any of it. I’m not hungry. My freezer and all my freezer containers are full of the chicken I cooked last week. What am I going to do with five quarts of stew?

I feel like someone’s grandmother cooking for the family who will never come.

I’m starting to look like someone’s grandmother. It’s been decades since my hair has been this long. In a corporate cut, it always looked mousy to me. Since growing it out, somehow the lighting in the bathroom convinced me I had some interesting highlights. Today, it looked like having been out in the weak late-winter sun for a couple hours a day for the past couple of weeks had lightened them a bit.

Of course with my glasses on, by the time I get far enough away from the mirror to focus, the details are lost. With my glasses off, by the time I get close enough to the mirror to focus, all I can see is my nose, and the print it’s left on the glass. And then only if I cross my eyes.

Today I managed to maneuver around the end of the counter in such a way that after closing one eye I could look through the bottom of my glasses to examine the aforementioned highlights. Oh yeah. If gray can be referred to as highlights. I have huge streaks of gray in there.

Maybe I’ll shave my head.

CAUTION!

CAUTION!