I should learn not to place my happiness in other people. Feeling well enough as long as my foundations are stable. Foundations can't be built on the backs of friendships or romances, even the most resolute. The best of individuals will eventually let you down. Only human, we are all only human. The weight of our own lives is far too great to saddle the weight of others' lives in tandem.
I chronicle this. Once again I have allowed myself to build happiness on that of another person. I have no right to put my mood and battle on anyone else, willing or unwilling. Only in the shallow confines of this stupid blog do I find any rest from my own negative brain waves.
Life is/was going well.
Job I didn't mind, not great, but didn't mind.
Straight run of high marks in university, intro classes, but still.
New beautiful girl that seemed to be infatuated with me.
Friends, co-workers, customers, these relationships all seemingly going swimmingly.
Despite my best efforts to breathe worth into these ideas, concepts, I only find myself staring at the edge of a knife or a bottle of pills again. Why now? Why have I put my worth as a living specimen of humanity on someone else's scale? I toss my own measuring stick aside to use that of another.
So long have I been ahead of this monster... I let my guard down and now pay the price. The ferryman cometh and expects his token payment. Here I thought I had gotten away with a free ride, mistaken. Do not make light of your foe or underestimate your enemy. If this depression is my enemy, I was laughing in its face. I now understand that the thing doesn't take kindly to ridicule.
Enraged, it has caught back up with me. The Dog's maw howls agape as it mists foul-stenched breath against my face. I'm not sure what to do. It's this moment, this millisecond before the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, that drags on the longest. Do I run? Do I fight? Do I give up?
Probably not the latter, hoping.
I grow so tired, but can not sleep.
Punishment.
Punishment for harboring positive thought.
Positive thought that I had the Dog licked, put in its proper place.
Perhaps its proper place is firmly latched onto my gullet, my windpipe.
I feel as though I'm only whining. I'm bitching and moaning because I am desperately seeking some like-minded individual to trapse into my life with their own tumor of a dog on their neck.
"Hello stranger, nice black furry tumor you have there on your neck," they remark. "Does the pain become bearable?"
To which I reply, "No, unfortunately not, fellow person of depressive discontent. The beast's grip has not relaxed one iota as of yet."
I imagine I'm wearing a monocle during this interaction. This is probably the lack of sleep typing. I'm beginning to notice how I make little to no sense of any of this.
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