Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Bring out your dead

The morning after a depressive attack

- (I hate it when they call it 'episode'. It's like calling a tornado a wind) -

feels like the aftermath of a hurricane. None of that 'happy golden sunshine after a rainstorm' bollocks.
You come out, the echoes of the storm still howling in your mind and ringing in your ears. The morning after is for counting the dead and just standing, resignatedly looking at the debris, your shattered self, wondering whether you will have the energy and resources to rebuild it all. Depressive crying is not liberating. It breaks whatever is left of you to shambles.

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