The Corner

 I found the corner again tonight. I backed up into that spot in my kitchen, my waist pressed into the countertop, and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. There is an "L" there, a stupid "island" they call it where the counter juts out. I sit inside the corner of the L, blending  into the mainland, avoiding the penninsula.

I am alone, so this is stupid. There is no one to hide from. It's quiet, only the hum of the refigerator, the heat coming on at intervals.

The floor though. I like the floor. I am your classic floor-croucher. No throwing myself across the bed with an anguished wail. Just a gentle slide into despair. I am familiar with this slide. I've contemplated suicide from this place. I've stared up at police officers from this place. I've insisted, bleary eyed and drunk that I did not want to live anymore, from this place. I have cried for lost children, lost love, lost hope, from this corner.

I've shaken off alcohol and anti-depressants, and I've been doing pretty well--turns out they were a huge part of the problem--not the solution. But still, this place beckons me. So I sit. Sob. It's the routine. And I laugh out loud because this...when you find yourself in this place-- this is when all of the people who say "If you ever need to talk, call me." come to mind. But I laugh a sick, deranged laugh, because I will never call. I will do this myself.

I will sit and watch the endless feed that runs through my head. Listen to the audio that narrates it. And I will grab my legs to my chest and hold my breath until the pounding in my ears from that drowns out the feed for a few seconds. Then I will exhale and feel lightheaded and try and clear it all away. Sometimes it works, after a couple of tries. Drinking makes it much, much worse I've found, so I don't do that anymore. In fact there is nothing that can be ingested that can help with this. Only one thing that I can think of, in fact, that I obssess about these days; a hug. Human touch. It's not a cure-all, but it goes a long way. Absent that, I press my shoulders into the cabinets now; the pressure coordinated with my knuckles jamming into my eyes.

"I Battle Depression".

Yeah...I'd say.


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4 Responses Mar 21, 2009

This story is having a profound inpact on me. I have been depressed for years and on antidep's for years. And usually I am a happy guy. But sometimes.....sometimes... like right now, they arn't working well. And I have paid a heavy price for the happiness they gave me. I am wondering about your way of handeling it.

I sometimes find that laying down on the floor is a grounding experience. I'm not a big fan of furniture.

Ya, the funny part is that her mom has shrunk, so she's actually the shorter one, now. But my wife doesn't make her do stuff now that she's shortround.

My wife's mom used to make her pick things up for her, since my wife is short and hence was "closer to the ground". This story made me think of that for some reason, don't mind me. Good story.

I am more of the "throwing myself across the bed with an anguished wail" type of depression. There is wailing a plenty, and sometimes those tears that just leak out of your eyes without a single sound, but you can't make them stop. <br />
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I have two children that depend on me. I can not slip into my self indulgent depression when they are here. When they are here I can not chain smoke and watch the empty wine bottles pile up in the recycling bin. They are my two little blonde haired saviors. I pull myself together for them, cook macaroni, scrub little faces and teeth. I let them sleep with me, one on each side, soaking in their little boy smell. Its soothing and gives me a measure of peace.<br />
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I'll be OK, and you will be OK. We are mothers and we don't have a choice.