Aren't we all afforded a quiet depression

We all have our own versions, I suppose. Mine just happens to be pulling on my only pair of broken in boots, stomping across a dying hay field and stinging my knees with the whipping thistle and untamed grass. Mine was running to the thick patch of woods at our property edge.

I ran. I was tired of choking to death on the cry in the back of my throat. I couldn't breathe. My heart was breaking for the first time in so long. And knowing that it could still break, was little, no, it was NO solace. No comfort.

I thought the sanctuary of the forest would save me, calm me down. It might remind me. All this time I'd been spoon feeding myself the lie that I was a loner. But, I'm not. At least, I'm not today and the forest is making me feel very alone... and small... and worthless.

Aren't we all afforded a quiet depression. A place to wallow and pity ourselves. To write ourselves an excuse, a beautiful excuse. A reason to justify why we aren't "so bad" as a person.

So why do I feel like shit.
Why do I feel like a disgusting, ungrateful, shit.

I sniffed a bit, dabbed my cheeks and told myself I looked stupid. I'm 27. I'll be 28 next month. I know better. Life isn't that bad.

"You just miss your kids, and you just wanted things to be different with school and work. You aren't lonely, you just want a hug. You're used to comfort coming from another human being and it can't right now. So stop it. You look like an idiot."

I scuffed in the dry creek bed, pulled out various pieces of treasure, which amounted to a few broken bottles and abandoned snail homes. I found a shard of deer antler and a handful of pretty rocks. None of it was special, but the hunt was nice. By this time, Bartleby, the snail, which I named for Herman Melville's character, was crawling up my arm.

I am 10 years old here. I am free.

I won't lie, I cried more.

You know, the thing that is always so crystal clear to me is that I am not, at all, depressed. Not really. No more than every other human being is. I have a good life. I have friends that love me, family that loves me, I have enemies that teach me all the things I don't want to be. I have acquaintances that hug my neck and tell me how lovely I am. I have a world full of vintage-loving, vinyl collecting online friends. My children are shining balls of love and light. I have pen pals in several states and I have kissed the most gorgeous men, full on the mouth. I live a brilliant and enviable life. I'm not depressed, and I'm not even that lonely. I just want things to be different.

I am dissatisfied.

It's not all my fault. Sure. I know that. But... it frustrates me. I want someone to tell me it will be okay. But I'm too old for that. I have to tell myself. Or at the very least, tell Bartleby to tell me.


I am a loner. Sometimes. I just want someone to be alone with me. Today.

I brave the sea of field grasshoppers and brown snake territory. I'm not crying now. I'm not even choking on it. I can feel it, like a rock at the base of my stomach. Waiting. But for now, it's gone.

We all have our own versions of it. Mine just happens to be logic and music and High Fidelity on the couch with my sister. Pretending to see that things will work out because at least I can smile about that.

Mine is missing you, because you're real.

Mine is accepting that I will go back to school when the time is right, not when I selfishly choose to. And I will find the right job in time if I keep at it. That my kids will be home soon and that I am more that the awkward, boyfriend-less, chubby little dumpling you see.

I am satisfied.