Yesterday's post was part rant, part playing-the-martyr, part gloom-and-doom, part ridiculous.
Here it is: My body is host to something, what the doctors and the insurance company like to call major depressive disorder. It's a dark, sticky, horrible disease that floats through my veins like molasses, urging me into downward spirals. And I'm at the bottom of one of those spirals. At my most self-loathing, completely paralyzed, bottomed out, what's-the-point-anyway state of mind.
I try to go offline when this happens, keep the dark to myself. I don't write, blog, call, or answer the doorbell. I get it. You don't want to be party to my misery. Hell, I don't want to be party to my misery. (Party, by the way, seems like the wrong word here.)
Yesterday I broke the rules. I got hold of my blog and spewed the darkness on all of you. And for that I'm sorry. I do like blogging for its own sake. I do like crafting and following other people's directions and adding my own flair.
Plus, blogging is the toilet of writing: which is to say, if your house is a mess, start by cleaning the toilet. It's fast and offers such a great sense of accomplishment. Blogging is the same. Jot out a few sentences, add a photo or two, and poof! Proof that I'm more than my day job; more than my windowless office and those brittle press releases I produce like so many dandelions.
I like to have that proof out there in the world, accessible (if only to me) from any computer on the globe. So again, I'm sorry. I'm not well. But I'm on a path to getting better.