full circle

. . .from an upward battle of struggles and emotions to a journey of healing, growth, and laughter. . .


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pull the trigger

I cried myself to sleep last night. Perhaps I knew it was coming. Perhaps I didn’t. But my depression is back. Why else would I cry myself to sleep last night over two men who were each in their own ways my triggers of severe depression?

You know about T, so let’s start there. His 50th is today, and since my 40th in May, I had been thinking about sending him a card or an email to wish him a happy birthday. I was waffling until yesterday. I looked him up on the various online sites I know he’s on. Usually, there is no new information when I am nostalgic and look him up. But this time, I found out that he’s been songwriting with a couple of women. I wasn’t jealous (even though they were half his age). I was happy that he was writing songs again. But I was sad because I wanted to be part of his life. I was so proud when he wrote a new song. He once wrote a song for my birthday. And then I went looking for his songs, so I could listen to them. I was too lazy to dig up his actual CD, so I just listened to one I found online. I was in bed, and that’s when the tears started streaming down my face, on the verge of turning into painful sobs like when I was severely depressed after we broke up for the final time. And it’s not just about the tears – uncomfortable wet lines down my cheeks. It’s the physical pain that’s the worst. The pain that’s still there after I wipe the tears with a balled up tissue.

And then there’s M. I have debated many times whether to write about him here. But it’s such a complicated situation that I have shied away. Just thinking about our friendship makes my head hurt. The very short version of the story is that he and I are good friends but often act like we are dating when we hang out. We’ve known each other for 21 years, but we didn’t become friends until the last 10 years. He was there for me when T and I broke up. But he was also the reason I stood on the bridge in the middle of one winter night five years ago, looking down at the water wondering if I would drown right away if I jumped.

I haven’t seen him in over three months, and he lives five minutes away. When we hang out, it’s great. But when we don’t, it’s like I don’t exist. It’s like he’s embarrassed to be friends with me. He posts photos of him and his friends on FB, but when we went to see Gordon Lightfoot (his bucket list), I was not even mentioned on FB. There are other indications that point to the same conclusion. It’s so stupid. It’s like dating drama, but we’re not dating. Anyways, we were supposed to get together last week, but I never heard from him – not one single day until I texted him on the weekend. His story? Drunk all week. This shit is typical. I have a love/hate relationship with him. Girlfriends make plans and stick to them. And if they can’t, they actually call you and tell you they have to cancel. But what triggered me last night was that his new profile pic showed up in my news feed – him and some woman. Again, where am I in his world?

So, that along with T put me in a dark place last night. I don’t think I need to increase my meds. I don’t think… I just have to get through the next two weeks until my next family trip.

I’ve written before about being content that I’m single. But a part of me wonders if finding a new guy to hang out with would divert my depression. And then again, do I want to deal with a new friend/relationship?

I’m just so sad right now.


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just another day

Washing dishes. That’s all she had intended on doing. Each piece—a plate, a bowl, a spoon, a mug, a fork—all soaped and rinsed three times and neatly tucked into its place on the dish rack. But at the knife, she stared. She slowly placed it in her hand and carefully washed it. The smooth, sharp blade felt hot against her skin. Instead of putting it in the dish rack, she placed it back on the counter to dry. The serrated silver now felt cool against her wrist. She applied just enough pressure to leave thin marks across the vein. As she entertained the thought, visions of a messy, bloody kitchen stopped her for the moment.

*    *    *

What had happened to make her feel so desperate? She remembered the knife and brought it over to the computer desk. She stared at it with a cold heart and then reached out for it. With both hands, she clasped the handle and poised it towards herself. Her tears blurred reason. Her pleas drowned hope. The triangular tip touched her belly. If only she had the courage. If only she wasn’t so afraid of pain. She laughed ironically. All she wanted was to stop the pain, and yet it was pain that kept her from doing just that. She applied pressure, and the tip started to penetrate her skin. She couldn’t do it. Oh, she wanted to. She desperately wanted to. One deep stab. That’s all she needed. But her body shook, her mind torn. All she wanted was for the pain to go away. No one in her life could ever possibly understand what she was going through. No one.

*    *    *

The knife remained on the counter for days. No finger prints. No blood stains. Just a knife stripped of its power. Another day, another fantasy.