I am doing my best to pull myself out of depression. Mostly this involves reminding myself that this ennui won’t last forever, and knowing that it probably isn’t nearly as bad as it seems right now. Right now I’m just strung a little tightly, and even the smallest vibrations in the web of sadness are thrashing me around. Oh, but I was happy. For a single moment I was happy. I do not begrudge its brevity, nor its impermanence, for a perfect moment cannot last forever. And now that I am a bit removed from it, and no longer reeling from the implications, I can appreciate it for what it was: a birthday gift from someone who knows me better than I had imagined possible, who knew that I just needed someone to believe in me. So, instead of wallowing in misery, I will do my best to pull myself up by my bootstraps and put on a happy face, in the hope that by putting on a happy face, maybe some of that will seep beneath the skin, and penetrate my dour demeanor. I’ve yet to hear back from the place I want to work, and so this positivity may yet be fleeting, and I’ve no illusions about what will happen should the bottom fall out of this. I’ve been saying goodbye at my current job since someone let it slip that I was interviewing elsewhere, and I can’t imagine that I’d care to stick around and face my failure to depart. But right now I’ll not be dwelling on the all of the ways I could be worse off tomorrow.

It’s kind of ridiculous, really, falling victim to these vagaries of mood. Perhaps it explains my ingrained hatred of daytime television: no one likes to watch something which hits too close to home. Although, now that I think of it, the descent into a world of tears began in earnest when I shaved my beard. I should probably begin tracking it (which shouldn’t be too difficult as I only shave but twice a year), and see if there’s some correlation between being fresh-faced and suffering from a serious case of mopiness. A little biblical, perhaps, to blame my failings on a lack of hair, but if it’s any consolation, I did it to myself, and didn’t suffer the indignity of being shorn against my will. I mean, there was that one time in the fading light of the 1990’s, when I traded fur for domestic bliss (or a chance at it, truth be told), but after that fell rapidly apart (as haircuts and shaving are not a lasting foundation upon which to launch the salvation of a relationship), I vowed that never again would I allow another person to tell me how I must be groomed. Of course, that lasted only another year or two, until I had to get a job working for The Man, who insisted that shaving was somehow important to the performance of the job.

I am better than all of this. I will not let those who’ve (foolishly) decided to believe in me down any further than I already have. I am going to bounce back from all of this, and somehow land upon my feet (I feel like I’ve just used this metaphor recently). I will find a way to jam the defeat which I accidentally snatched from the jaws of victory back down that mother’s gullet, and pop ’round to the other side to grab hold of its reverse. I would just like to point out how chuffed I am to have put that image into your heads, one of a double-headed beast from whose anus one is obligated to pry out one’s victories. I also like that the “Jaws of Defeat” are now irrevocably linked with a puckered butthole in your mind. And that’s it. The first genuine smirk which I’ve generated from within. I’m actually smiling and chuckling now, which is actually quite disturbing. It’s a good thing I’ve no desire to write a book of fables for the incurably jaded, or I would own that market. Is there a market for those kind of tales? On second thought, it seems like something that I might not only be somewhat decent at, but would also enjoy producing. Hell, in writing them, I might even managed to glean a little wisdom of my own from my bitter ramblings. I could write them at my own pace, and collect them at my leisure. I could do them as bite-sized installments, easily crafted in the empty spaces between my shifts within a common workweek. Stupid muse who managed to get herself stuck within me.

We’ll see how it goes. I make no promises. There’s every chance that I’ll find some way to screw it all up once again, and for the duration of that melancholia, I’ll be blinded to the simple, happy things.

When that time has come again, I’ll ask you to avoid reminding me of all things for which I should give thanks, and just do what you have always all done best: just listen to my ramblings, nod your head in sympathy, and try not to worry too much about Tex Batmart. The day will someday come when it may all be too much to bear, but more so than ever before, and I will finally stop fighting it, and allow myself to fade. What this means, I couldn’t tell you, for that sentence just bubbled up from somewhere deep within my subconscious. Perhaps I’ll finally find peace with who I am, or perhaps I’ll sleep forever. The point is that for right now, for this very moment, I think that I’m okay, and in the nearly three dozen years which I’ve come to know as my existence, I’ve come to understand that I cannot ask for more.

So I offer my gratitude to those who’ve showed me kindness (however brief or fleeting). You have given me something to hold onto when everything grows dark. And yes, that happiness may feel like a blade when I am hovering near tears, but that is my problem, and most definitely not yours. You are the best, and I’m so very thankful that I got the chance to meet you. May your lives be what you want or need them to become, and if there is some way that I can repay your generosity, please don’t hesitate to ask. I may not be able to accommodate you, but I will definitely do my best.