4:21 PM .:. Oh, let's guess what fun topic I choose today.

Depression

Oh yes. First it's an insult. An attack. How dare you blame your problems on my depression? How dare you suggest that I don't have a strong grip on reality? How dare you, sir, suggest that all I see wrong with the world is merely a figment, an augmentation, an unrealistic and therefore wrong perception of the world? This is a ruse. A figment of your imagination. A mistake of your perception.

I cry. So I'm crazy. I scream and beat my fists and I splutter all the indecencies I've received from you, all the ways in which I've been hurt and walked over and most importantly, ignored. But that's because I am depressed, you say. You do everything correct. Everything is right.

When do I stop trusting me? When do I start? When it's clinical, when a doctor-man looks me in the eye and says, "you have a serious problem," depression equals crazy. I'm afraid to make judgements. I'm afraid to discern whether an action is normal or abnormal. I fail to see what love is. Do I make it up because I long for it? Is it gone and non-existing because I'm depressed and feel chemically sad? Where's the truth?

Which way is up?

Looking down on me walking between the hedges, through the cemetery and beside rushing cars in their blues and browns, I swing to the left and right and dodge beneath my own chin, look at my face and investigate the clues. How do I know I'm not just sad? Just plain ol', good natured, run-of-the-mill sad? Someone dies. Do you not feel grief? Isn't that normal? You are shunned. Do you not feel hurt? Is that not normal?

First it's an insult. Then it's a confusion. It instills doubt in me. I doubt myself because of your and your and your observation. Then it's neglect. Who cares? Nobody can tell me.

Which way is up?

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