Friday, August 22, 2014

The Answer Was the Cure

My wife got sick of listening to me be sick so she scheduled me an appointment. We ain’t got much, but thank God we’ve got Tricare Prime. If what I walked away from the pharmacy desk with isn’t enough to kill this thing, there’s no hope. As it is, I’m feeling better already.

The Augmentin is the MVP of the team here, which should take care of the opportunistic infection occasioned by exhaustion, anxiety, and what I’d thought was a long dismissed episode of depression.

Naming the demon was half the problem. It was in conversation with my honors student/varsity football playing son, in which he confessed to being anxious about his impending senior year, that the answer to the question What is this? was revealed to me. Once I realized it was an expression of the same anxiety and depression that had dogged me at this time last year, I felt my energy levels rise. It was as if someone had taken a heavy blanket from atop a running motor. Now that the motor had air, it could run at full efficiency.

Like a weight being lifted from me. There’s a reason that expression exists. I had denied being anxious about my second book, about making the podcasts and doing the promotion necessary to getting my audience. I had all but curled up into a ball hoping all this responsibility and need would go away on its own. Can’t be responsible for anything if I’m sick, right?

I put on my shoes and went for a long walk. I was still weak, but not so weak I couldn’t pull off my usual three miles. I got going good and proper on the medication. The next morning I woke up feeling nearly normal.

Today I exploded through my writer’s block to type three pages on my new novel.

In all my years, I’ve yet to find an anti-depressant
as reliable and effective as cigarettes and alcohol.
“Drinkerbell” Copyright © 2014 by Matt Dixon.
Since the self-murder of the comedian recently, I had long been considering a proper rant at my disdain for talk about depression from people who live in much nicer circumstances, who are in no danger of living in any condition that amounts to outright poverty. So my depression is built upon reasonable terror and justifiable fear...I’m actually well enough now to realize that it doesn’t matter. 

Nobody loves you when you’re down and out—when you’re depressed for actual, concrete reasons—and there’s no changing that. I’m on my own. But that’s for the best. Nobody knows my issues better than me.

I named my demon, and it vanished in a puff of stink straight back to Hell. Yeah, I’m feeling mighty pleased with myself.

Most of all, I’m feeling not sick. So let’s get back to work. I’ve lost enough time to these August blues as it is.