“No matter how depressed I get, I could always read the sports section.”

The Depression Monster got me.  It took all of the last night and most of today to take back control.  I feel like I just finished playing professional tag for three hours.  I’d kinda like to cry, but I’m too stingy with what little energy I have remaining.  At least my thoughts are slow for a change.  Time certainly seems to pass more quickly when I’m fighting a bout of depression.

I just wish it wasn’t because everything takes far longer to pull off in this state.  M. suggested we have a Stevie Nicks party this weekend to send the Depression Monster packing as quickly as possible.  I’m totally going to marry him.  I know I agreed already, and all that.  But this was precisely the moment I knew with all my heart he’s The One.

Geez, I’m grossing myself out.  Heh.  (Mostly because I mean it.)  I don’t know what this feeling is called, but it’s the same way I feel about four chapters into every book by Stephenie Meyer.  I always think to myself, “Dammit, she did it again!  She tricked me into reading a romance novel disguised as speculative fiction!”  (Please note, I’ve read everything she’s written, and will continue because I love her.)

I pay close attention to the way M. says things.  He’s never put his foot in his mouth that I’ve noticed.  He didn’t fall into the trap of suggesting a way to “get over my depression.”  Just a way of getting through this round more quickly.  With him.  This is two new things to consider.  Usually, I send him away when I get depressed.  He figured out how to invite himself to hang out.

Damn, he’s brilliant.  I’m sure there are several ways he could have accomplished this, but a Stevie Nicks party is a home run.  Or maybe a touchdown.  Whichever one is better.  I’d be printing out Stevie Nicks quotes on pretty backgrounds and hanging them all over the place if I could get up.  Tomorrow,  I’ll gather some hardcover notebooks, my best pens, and my favorite blanket.

Then we’ll sit on the blanket in front of the TV and watch my ocean scenes Bluray, and write poetry.  (M. will probably write poems about surgery.)    Then a live concert DVD or three.  Yes, this will send the Depression Monster running in tears.  Perfect.  I love reading poetry written by people who insist they can’t write a poem.

They don’t know the rules, or what’s expected.  It frees their creativity.  Some people are naturally poetic.  I think of them as graceful minded.  I like being near people like this.  I’m probably hoping it’ll rub off on me.  I have a lot of faith in osmosis, apparently.  I’m off to read.  🙃