Fu*k.

I'm having one of those days.

I haven't had an episode in a long while. I mean, not like an EPISODE. I've had little moments here and there (I call them "tremors," because it sounds kind of cool and mysterious), but I've been taking care of myself, going to the gym, watching what I eat, reading, and making music. I've been doing all the shit I know I'm supposed to do.

And guess what? Depression gives absolutely no fucks whatsoever about any of that.

I was walking up the stairs to my gym this morning, and halfway up I started weeping. It was the kind of weeping where you'd have thought I just watched the end of Old Yeller, or Brian's Song. It was embarrassing as shit, and I think I covered it up pretty well, but I couldn't get over the shock of it just suddenly being right on top of me. One minute I'm trotting up the stairs, thinking about my workout, then out of nowhere the Black Dog sinks his teeth into my brain and gives a violent shake. 

For the record, I continued up the fucking stairs, and I DID work out. I've learned the value (though it is often a Pyrrhic victory) of pushing through in those moments. Especially if what I'm doing doesn't require much brain power. I often use the discomfort and pain of exercise to get my psyche to shut up for a bit. The problem was, I was convinced everybody was watching me. (They weren't, and I know they weren't. But these are the kinds of things the Black Dog says to you. They're watching. They know you're a mentally unstable wing nut. The dudes in the white coats are probably waiting downstairs. Maybe when you finish you should just take a header out the window.)

I feel bad for my family when this shit hits. My wife and kids are "get-shit-done" kind of people. If there exists a problem, they all want to FIX IT. Do this thing, get that thing, think about this other thing. I wish it were that simple. I really do. I wish this wasn't clinical depression, that it was just a foul mood, or a bit of melancholy, and that I actually could improve my disposition with some sort of distraction. How do you even begin to explain to someone who doesn't live with the Black Dog that distractions are about as effective as shooting rubber bands at Godzilla?

Maybe you think that writing about it will make it better. You'd be wrong about that. When this is happening, there is no making it better. All I can do is document it for posterity. Because what the fuck else am I going to do? Writing about this shit and putting it in the world is how I give a big middle finger to the Black Dog. It's not a cry for help; it's me telling the demon that, if he wants to fuck with my head, he's going to have to do it in the daylight. I have a belief - based on no empirical evidence - that Depression dislikes the light. So all I'm really doing by writing this and sharing it is choosing where the fight takes place. 

I'll take any edge I can get.