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The Pill in My Hand Like the Gun to the Head

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In psychology, you’ll learn that people ‘tell’ on themselves all the time. Forensic psychologists learn to hear what people say and what they don’t say and use that to develop a profile of the person. My title to this post, a somewhat provocative one, I suppose, tells a lot. See, it’s MY hand but it’s THE head. I don’t “own” the gun to MY head–’cause it never will be. I couldn’t quite bring myself to even type ‘my’. But that’s all beside the point. I’m digressing, and it’s not at all what I wanted to talk about.

What I did want to talk about is depression. Depression is the proverbial gun. The pill in my hand is one of the components of a treatment, but not a cure, for the gun–the pill is the safety lock on the gun. Just like a real safety lock, it can malfunction, and sometimes the gun still goes off, but more often than not, the pill, or the safety lock works and the gun can’t do as much damage. Sure, you could turn it around and use the grip to beat the snot out of someone, and someone can stay depressed if they really want to, but that’s really wearing an analogy and metaphor way too much.

The whole point of this blog post, that again, if you  knew me and you were a forensic psychologist, you’d see that I was trying to avoid, was talking about MY depression. And it was almost as hard to type that as it was to type MY in front head when pertaining to a gun to my head.

MY depression. (more…)

It’s Days Like Today

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Most of the time, I deal with ‘living’ as a ‘dying’ person quite well. Most of the time, I handle being sick okay. Most of the time. But there are days like today, days where I want to just get up, walk out of the house and LEAVE somewhere, by myself, without anyone else around me, and just drive for an hour or two with the music blaring until I have to stop and figure out where I am so I know how to get back.

I always came back. Always.

Eventually.

But now, I have to get dressed, find my clothes, find my shoes, get someone to move their car, argue with why I shouldn’t be able to go drive alone, know that it’s right that I shouldn’t drive alone–or drive at all, probably, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because by the time I even found my shoes, I’d be too exhausted to even bother going anywhere, much less getting clothes on and then oxygen tanks hooked up to cannulas, and then navigating whether I’m going to walk or wheelchair to the vehicle and and and… and just fuck it.

So I sit here in this chair typing to you guys and wishing desperately I could, sometimes, just for a short time, run away… I swear, I’ll come back–just let me go for a little while… just a little while.

Sigh.

But no.

Michy

 

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