Maybe it's Seasonal Affective Disorder, or the fact that there have only been a handful of sunny days since our beloved dog died fifty-four days ago that's fueling this cycle of depression. Maybe. Maybe it's never getting to fill the tank up with gas because I have to keep buying anti-freeze for a car I'd like to park on the Norfolk Southern line. Maybe it's never getting to do normal things, the little things...a movie, a road trip, clothes shopping. I literally can't even take a Sunday drive with my daughter because the car could kick the bucket. We live our lives in a three mile radius. Maybe someday we will be able to see the ocean again; the same variant day that has been regurgitated for the last eight years has gotten a little stale. Maybe one day I'll be happy again. Maybe. Maybe it's just menopause.
Telling someone that, things could always be worse, not only points out the patently obvious, but also does nothing to alleviate the stress and anxiety of the one who is not in your position. Someone is praying for the things you take for granted, on the other hand has real meaning for me now, but someone needs to explain to me how gratitude and crippling depression can occupy the same soul, because while I'm supremely grateful for all that I have, I still walk under the shroud of darkness feeling utterly alone in my contradiction.
Telling someone that, things could always be worse, not only points out the patently obvious, but also does nothing to alleviate the stress and anxiety of the one who is not in your position. Someone is praying for the things you take for granted, on the other hand has real meaning for me now, but someone needs to explain to me how gratitude and crippling depression can occupy the same soul, because while I'm supremely grateful for all that I have, I still walk under the shroud of darkness feeling utterly alone in my contradiction.
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