The Last 72 Hours

I could start with something clever, but that would involve thinking of something clever and I just don’t have the energy.

What, then, do I have?

I won’t say “inspiration” because that just feeds the bullshit that depression “fuels my art” and that I want to be depressed so that inspiration strikes.

No, what I have are words, spilling out of me like a river out of its bed in a torrential downpour. I have words that have filled me up over the past 72 hours until I was bursting at the seams and I bypassed all of the drafted blog posts to start this one because I need to chronicle this spiral for myself–and I need to leave the conclusion here as a reminder that I have gone down the rabbit hole one more time and climbed back up. Maybe re-reading this someday will help me find the ladder more quickly.

72 hours ago, Thursday afternoon and the end of my work week, I felt alright. Tired, sure, and a little defeated–that has been my general mood over the past month or so. Constant exhaustion and dejadez, which the dictionary tells me is “neglect” but that does not seem quite right. Dejadez in the sense of “whatever happens, happens;” dejadez in the sense of “I am tired of swimming so I’ll drown instead.” Dejadez because I’d given up on fighting.

And then, in the space of maybe three hours, that feeling became something else entirely.

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