Stuck. It’s not even a novel kind of stuck.

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

This dude gets me.

I’ve been having a really hard time with writing, lately.

I’ve been having a hard time with everything, really.

The hardest thing to understand about depression is also one of the hardest parts to deal with: the fact that it just comes on suddenly and from nowhere sometimes.

Sometimes everything is great, you think things are on the up and up, and then BOOM. Depression.

Except it’s never a BOOM, it’s more of a:


A long, slow, desperate moaning and groaning.

We don’t want this to happen to us.

I worry, when I’m in those darkest of times, when I can’t get up and showered and out of the house, that people are going to think I’m pretending to be this way so that I can just lay on the couch and watch TV all day.

They don’t realize, they don’t bother to ask, and they don’t care that in those times I’m actually watching/not-watching the same things over and over again, because I haven’t had the mental capacity to store the details of trivial things such as television shows and movies for quite some time now.

It really annoys my friends that I never remember what happens in our favorite shows and movies.

It annoys me, too.

That’s the least of it.

I didn’t want this post to devolve into a whiney, mopey bitch fest.

You see, I began with a great Stephen King quote that really means something to me – like I said in the beginning, I’ve really been struggling with writing, but more specifically I’m struggling with whether to share my writing.

Not just my writing – my thoughts.

My words are my thoughts, my words are my heart.

My heart is fragile, unfortunately. I can’t lie or try to deny that.

I don’t know if I can handle saying the things I want to say, but I don’t know if I can handle not saying them anymore, either.


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