[content note: depression, gentle whinging]

( Robert Frost, My November Guest. )

The thing that irks me most is not, as it turns out, this shattered prison, after all. I have said this before and probably I will say it again: mobility aids? Fine, good, you might be able to walk but I can do wheelies, etc. Pain? Eh, I've learned to live with it.

What I cannot stand, however, is this wretched foggy blanket, this muffling, this dragging sadness that catches at me (unawares) and can be staved off for a moment, for a while, by surrounding myself with people - at the cost, later, of exhaustion and increased susceptibility and the bedrock certainty that everything I have said, everything I have done, every tiny movement, every breath, has served to alienate the people I am clinging to.

These days I know that it will pass, and that it will pass soon, but I also know that the only thing I can do about it is grit my teeth and hurry up and wait.

( J.J. Hunter, What I mean when I say 'depressed'. )