Violet by Hole

I spin in my chair opening and closing drawers pretending to look for something, or maybe I am looking for something, I don’t know. I turn back to my computer and start typing, aimlessly at first and then with more purpose and potency, but of course I get bored, stuck, or even concerned that someone will look over my shoulder, and I have to stop. I look back at the clock and realize that only 3 minutes have gone by. I Google depression again. The first thing that pops up is a link, an advertisement for some kind of medication. “‘Are You Depressed?’ Our depression research study is enrolling participants right now www.Ifeelblue.com.” The next thing I see is Google listing it as a disease with suggestions of possible medical websites. I think it’s a little ridiculous to call depression a disease. I don’t consider it a disease, or even an illness. Not that I think physiological problems aren’t real illnesses or anything, I just don’t think depression should be in the same category as Schizophrenia or Bi Polar Disorder. I mean think about it, how many diseases can you cure just by talking about it? Don’t you wish it were true though? Imagine what the world would be like if you could cure major diseases just by talking them out?

Major depression (depression) Google Health, Mayo Clinic, Medline Plus, WebMD

I click on Mayo Clinic, because I always do, because it’s easy. I read through the definition and the symptoms, seeing myself on the screen more and more as the list goes on. Reading this only makes me wish I had someone to talk to. Makes me miss Ingrid more and more. Makes me question once more how and why our relationship ended. It’s easy really; she ended it, citing my lack of commitment as the cause. Which I guess might have seemed true, but when your depressed committing, even to getting better, seems impossible. So in reality, even if I was having trouble helping myself, she still shouldn’t have given up on me. Isn’t that the point of treatment? To take the burden off your own shoulders and asking someone else to carry a bit of it for you? Or maybe I’m getting this all wrong and am once again overacting in order to keep myself in a state of depression. That’s the thing about us depressives, we don’t really want to get better.

Linda: “Do you wanna-”
Me: (inner monologue) No
Linda: “-help me with something?”
Me: Sure

Working here reminds me of the last few weeks of school. After all the tests were taken, all the books returned, when there’s nothing left to do but count the minutes until summer. The teachers, in a feeble attempt to keep the peace, give you what they would lovingly refer to as busy work. Better known with the younger generation as bullshit. That’s what it’s like working here. I have my job, and then I have the bullshit I pretend to do in order to look busy. Luckily enough, Linda isn’t the type of person to share duties. I look back up at the clock and it’s 12:40. I turn back to my computer screen.

Thinking about Ingrid makes me sad, even if it has been almost 2 years since she ended my treatment with her. Missing someone that I barely knew for such a short period of time makes me realize how pathetic I am. What a pathetic little duck am I? I attach myself to anyone who will even pretend to care. Every woman in any kind of authority figure possession, who shows me even the slightest bit of charm, is in danger of my puppy dog nature. All this brings us back, once again to my mother. The reason, I believe I am so obsessed with depression and in return Ingrid and on to my pathetic baby duck syndrome, would probably boil down to the fact that it is July the 12th. Which wouldn’t mean much to many people, besides my best friends mother who was born on this day, except for the fact that it is 3 days after my birthday. Which, once again probably wouldn’t matter much, if it wasn’t for one, teeny tiny little detail: my mother didn’t call, text, write, e-mail, or Facebook me. Which wouldn’t have bothered me so much if it weren’t for the fact that we’d been exchanging polite pleasantries and even become almost chatty with, over the past few months. So you can imagine my disappointment when I don’t hear from her on a day I’m sure no mother could forget. I guess when you have 7 kids it’s easier to forget this kind of thing. It’s 1 O 5. For some reason I had completely forgotten that 1 comes after 12. For some reason I didn’t believe the clock when it said it was time to go. Usually I am sitting at my desk tapping my feet just waiting for the clock to strike one. Today, for some reason, I am completely distracted.