I don’t like to blog about my depression when I’m depressed.
I write about it in my journal. And I talk about it to friends willing to listen.
But I don’t blog about my depression as it’s happening.
If I was 16, I would. I’d chronicle every tear, every instance of self-loathing, and each and every what the fuck’s the use this is how I’m going to off myself plan going through my head.
In my twenties, I drove my aunt’s car into a tree, or was it a telephone pole? All I know is I was drunk and thought it was as good a time as any to say goodnight.
But I woke up to an ER nurse telling me I was a lucky sum bitch.
She said, “Not only did you survive an accident that should’ve killed you, the dumb ass cops on the scene, for whatever reason, didn’t request a blood/alcohol level.”
I said, “What’s that mean?”
She said, “That means you’re free to go and do more damage.”
I caught a ride with a guy and his wife.
We shared a joint and, just before I got out the car, the wife kissed me.
I got sick to my stomach but waited till they left before I threw up.
My aunt was pissed. She said, “You need to go to Vegas because you are the luckiest mother fucker in this goddamn world. My car is totaled and you’re standing here without a scratch, missing only the matted hair you left on the windshield.”
I wanted to say I’d do anything to reverse the result, but she had no time for my whiny remorse, so I kept my mouth shut.
The insurance company said they were only obligated to pay off the car I wrecked. So, when it came to buying a new car, my aunt was on her own.
She picked out a vehicle and told me, “You’re never going to drive this car but I expect you to pay me 200 dollars a month to help cover the note and insurance.”
And, to the surprise of my aunt, and myself, I paid on time, every time, until the title to the automobile was hers.
That was in 1974.
My aunt died in 2004.
I never drove a car she owned again.
Because, 30 years after the fact, despite my 27 years of continuous sobriety, her insurance company forbade it, even on her deathbed, they said, “No.”
I don’t get depressed for the same reasons anymore. And I don’t think at all about suicide.
The end of my time here is coming soon enough.
I just let the bad stuff come and I let it go. I do whatever I can to hurry it along.
And, most of the time, it’s not worth a blog post.