Oh, Manchester, So Much To Answer For

This hasn’t been the best week/month, fairly all-around, for the Norfolk gang. Jenn’s father is awaiting a spleenectomy. Our friend Darrell’s had pneumonia much of the month, and I fear that his HIV is starting to develop into full-blown AIDS – ‘cause he’s getting sick all the time now, which tells me that his immune system is getting shot up something fierce. [Yes, I know that AIDS is generally characterized by the onset of an opportunistic disease; sadly, I feel as if it may only be a matter of time in Darrell’s case.] Michael isn’t thrilled (last paragraph of "Hump Day" post) with life in general of late (most notably, his – which in part means our – money situation). And then there’s me. I’m just not feeling it these days – and, in fact, can feel a full-blown bout of depression attempting to rear its nasty head, largely because I’m so dissatisfied with much of my life as it is right now: job, money (or lack thereof), and some other stuff not for public purview. But mark my words, I’m gonna do every fucking thing I can to ensure that said bout does not happen.

When I fall into a bout of depression, which tends to happen about every 5-6 years or so, I’m essentially a shell. I can go through the motions – coworkers often don’t know I’m even depressed – but when the 5 o’clock bell rings, I tend to go home and just cocoon. It generally lasts about a month, and in that time, I don’t want to deal with anything under those circumstances, and generally don’t. Which is, of course, not particularly constructive. It’s a fairly low-grade thing as these things go; I’ve never had a need to be medicated or anything along those lines, and I’m not manic, either. I just have your basic garden-variety depression, clinically speaking. It’s a liveable condition, kinda like diabetes.

As I’ve gotten older, however, I’ve gotten better at managing it. I often end up forcing myself to be (remain) sociable and put on a happy face. Anything’s better than just sitting, by myself, with my thoughts, when I’m depressed. That’s not to say I don’t examine the causes and effects and solutions of/for my depression, just that I try not to dwell on it. I certainly journal a lot during said times (not that that’s so different from normal – and yeah, I do keep an ink-and-paper journal. What, you think I tell you bitches everything? Oh, no I don’t). So right now, if I seem a little off, if my entries aren’t what you’ve come to expect, if I’m not as gregarious face-to-face, that’s why. But as Daniel Bedingfield sang, I’ve gotta get through this. And I will.