There's no denying it. You (-I) don't get over it.
I've been told, don't worry, those that understand will understand. Those that find you boring, will just turn away. So, just let them know how you feel, if that's what you want to let out, then let it out. Those that know those feelings will be sympathetic with you, they will want to listen, the will understand your need to drone on and on about it.
You just don't get over it when a large portion of your life has been engulfed by life threatening depression.
Those that would tell me to Get Over It, they have no understanding, hopefully they won't read what I have to say. Hopefully they will turn away and continue steering their lives with limitless resolve and courage around every possible pitfall, crushing beneath their wheels every grief from their past such that it can harm them no more. I congratulate them, those that can Get Over It, those that can sieze life in their palm and squeeze out the bad, keeping just the good bits for themselves. I applaud those people, I wish they existed. Truth is, those that would dismissively tell us to Get Over It, they have their hurdles that they can't leap, they're just not honest enough to the world, or to themselves, to speak it.
It just comes back again and again, I am well a lot of the time, but the past forever ripples forward, catching me off-guard. It caught me off-guard today.
The trigger can be identifiable, maybe feeling unwell, or tired, the entire world can become a futility for a while as a result. An argument can trigger a dam-burst of negativity that can feel, can almost feel it has irresistable mass, like a cubic kilometre of water. What seems like an insurmountable problem at work can sprout tendrils that swiftly grow, reaching out over all that can be seen, throttling it, penetrating all life with roots like medical syringes, drawing out all vitality, all life. Routine things, little surprises that pop up, can trigger it.
The gems that twinkle and charm in the mind of the depressive, eh? I tell it like it's a bastard, because it is a bastard, a dispicable character that creeps in and does harm for its own sake, caring not a bean for the one inflicted.
This time, it was a visit to a cinema, that bastard can lurk just about anywhere, rarely predicatably though. I remembered a visit to a cinema perhaps 25 years ago. The film, the company are unimportant, the fact was that so much time has passed and here I am again. It's as though nothing has changed, improved, in life, I'm just back where I was half a life ago. It is all thoroughly pointless and loaded with poison. It is a wretched trap of an existence, and I'm the worst afflicted, I'm the one who sees it most, the only one who is unfortunate enough to see and feel the true depth of the afliction of it all.
And these are the words of one who is cured... I had years fitting the pattern of the above, but I'm over it. Ha! Sometimes. Often I am over it. Sometimes though, it tip-toes up on me. I am lucky though, I will be OK in the morning, or if not then, the morning after that.
I am lucky to be over the worst of it, but I still live in fear of the bad days that always come. And I life in fear of it taking hold once again, turning the remainder of my life putrid.
