Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Wednesday, Before Dawn -- Notes for the Therapist

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore
And who would've thought the books that you brought
Were all I loved you for
Oh the devil in me said go down to the shed
I know where I belong
But the only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong

It's that little souvenir of a colorful year
Which makes me smile inside
So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way
Surpise, surpise, surpise, surpise surpise

Here's where the story ends
Oh here's where the story ends

- The Sundays, "Here's Where the Story Ends"

It's that feeling of coming alive when the depression breaks after a bad episode, when the Sunday and Monday blues fade into the manic highs of Thursday, Friday, Saturday. It feels all too similar to my drinking years (note to self: discuss this phenomenon with the new therapist), when I would suffer through withdrawal in a world all of my own on Sunday and Monday only to be reborn again on Wednesday or Thursday, when I would emerge from the despair and isolation of alcoholic hell into the outside world again. It's like the depression is mimicking those years, making me revisit old visions and memories that I had revisited plenty of goddamn times by now thank you very much. Listened to this song this morning (read: dawn) after a sleepless night -- still no sign of the sunrise -- and it made me feel alive again after a rough two and a half days in which I spent a lot of time in bed feeling homesick and singing the blues (strange as it was the first time I had struggled with a depressive episode since moving to Superior). I don't know what it's like for most people; maybe they feel alive all the time. But for me, I've learned to appreciate those moments when you feel truly alive, when the darkness breaks and the sunrise of a new day peaks its head over the horizon.

Nevermind. You wouldn't understand. 

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