70 minutes until my 50th birthday.

70 minutes till my 50th birthday.

And a year because I gave my wife a quick in emergencies on my 49th birthday by trade a psychiatrist and making an office. The downward slide into depression had gotten such bad that even I couldn’t stand heart around me. A couple of all a~ years of internalized stress had taken their custom on me, mind, body, and ~s. I lived those days in that frightful place where joy had been in appearance vanquished by an unending fog, toxic to show, but maybe one just wants to pause it and deeply to pass the time ago tomorrow will not be any more good. Or the tomorrow after that. I hated myself, that fright in the mirror who actually wondered audibly loud if he hated mirrors other than what he saw in the reflector.   Thank goodness no single asked me then, which I hated again, since I would have undoubtedly (1) cried and (2) got defensive in all parts of it (3) felt guilty about actuality defensive (4) and gotten angry concerning feeling guilty.

I know some of you were friends through that guy. Maybe even loved that guy. Likely you didn’t know. All of that action training from high school and literary institution comes in handy at the ~ numerous odd times.  But that fright, through the fog, through the everlasting days, one to the next, remembered in what plight much he loved his wife and made the election. And kept the appointment. And talked and talked and talked and wept to the time when there was no more talking to be done. No more remembering. No greater degree of tears.

I left with a diagnosis of clinical hollow and a few prescriptions and wrote this by reason of one of my first posts forward this BLOG:

The 50 milligram Lament

Operating Heavy Machinery is with~,

About to cross it off my bucket think proper,

For now.

Rummaged those Tonka Trucks from my non-age too soon,

It seems.

For this, against all the absolutes, the things I be aware of,

A counter-weight of a myriad questions yet remain:

Like which of me from narrative shall I be

As the pharmacology re-wires me,


50 milligrams,

Medicinal Kleenex as being tears unexpected, unappreciated;

To soothe breaths and heartbeats that arrive too quickly,

all that energy paralyzing:

The apprehension of failing, of being nothing,

The recent of which is, truth be told,

A Christian’s goal:

To be nothing, so that in Christ united could be everything:

In him; For him; Though him.

I wait concerning everything, but the afternoon brings simply rain,

For now.

But tomorrow efficacy yet be the day

When ~ means of some mystery it becomes a yesterday of yesterday,

When I was someone other less sad.


As it turns in a puzzle that medication didn’t do the hoax – I felt worse, actually.

But the next pair of meds, one for worry and one for depression, once the dosing was sorted out and I became de-zombie-fied, began to work amazing changes over time. True, I was diagnosed through lupus just about then, an auto-immune disorganization in which the body attacks itself, and collected a novel doctor (a rheumatologist) and a renovated medicine (which I can now utter but still can’t spell). Did the lurking lupus source the depression (it can) or was the lowness the lupus’ evil twin or were they undesigned companions in my haywire neurology? No archetype . Did genetics cause the lupus/lowness of spirits or the environment or stress or more wacko virus? No idea.

39 minutes to action.

The lupus kicked my ass with regard to months, leaving my brain feeling like it was common fire, me in bed in the afternoon with a compress over my eyes in joylessness with my rescue kitten for association (*note: not the current little cutie pie person, but the one who went from close to death-totally-sick-with-everything-conceivable to a year-old cat I convene Sasquatch – who still loves me). The lupus kicked my dolt and then one day, it didn’t. The kindred tests indicated the disease was proper less active. The swelling in my thumb stoop disappeared. I went six months out of crying. I found that I could sing again. I stopped caring about in what plight the glasses were arranged in the private apartment (well, mostly stopped caring.)

26 minutes.

This metrical composition was me pre-shrink, pre-meds and ahead of things got really bad:

I forgot the hardy of my own laughter

I forgot the re~ of my own laughter,

not my descriptive term or how to tie my shoes.

Not such bad, I figure, but it would subsist nice

unless it sounds like a clamorous ass or something else ridiculous

like that.

I forgot the ink-fish of my own laughter like forgetting yesterday

that would be OK if today  offered something to hold onto,

even a smile not strained, not faked.

Could you remember notwithstanding me,

being gentle, what it was like?

Do not suggest to me that I have forgotten control.


I remember that person, the individual who wrote that and hated mirrors and could not imagine being happy or embracing a beatitude-filled future. Therapy, medication, life changes, supplication of god, God, my kitten(s), family, just friendships, hobbies, the kitchen sink, throw it every one of in there; by some order of marvel I am not that person at all more. And I am not within a little as afraid of becoming that bodily substance again. Not nearly, but nor is that solicitude gone completely. Let’s just answer that I have a healthy pose about it and leave it at that.

15 minutes.

I cachinnate. More in a day than in a year. More in a week than in a decade.

So am I some perfect form of myself? Maximum me?

Let me disabuse you of that notion. I tranquillize get anxious. I still can prepare in my head and walk that treadmill to what nothing seems to move forward. Big complicated projects or a sequence of them can raise the background accent to uncomfortable levels. I still acquire moments of profound doubt about things that I am actually good at, but on a richness day I might even admit publically that there are things I do well. Progress is stationary progress and compared to a year past, I am so much more well it boggles my mind.

So cheerful birthday to me. May the aid fifty years be healthier and additional full of laughter. But two things, at least, remain the same: That God is in favor of me. And my wife loves me. And that is again than enough for me.  DSC_1284

Some lofty benefits of the kitchen connoisseur are extensively identified, bound sorting by means of every the same of the ripoffs and fads could have existence a challenging process.

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