February was brutal. The snow and long gray days kept my fragile state in the forefront of my mind. I've gone two weeks without posting mostly because I am keenly aware, as most depressives are, that no one wants to hear that nothing has changed; I am still depressed and unable to be constructive or productive with my time. "Just stop!," my closest tell me as they shut the door behind them leaving me alone with my pain.
I am fragile. I do not feel the gathering strength that I long for. I feel dead inside. Not even spring will melt this icy coldness, that much I know.
This must be my fire, burning off the impurities of my soul. This is a test of strength and fortitude. I'm not going anywhere. I have someone who needs me in spite of my illness. I am grateful for this and tell myself every day not to let him down. Within my bitter pain there is a sweetness.
I yell at myself like a mean man yells at a dog. I beat myself up for not creating, for not moving my body. I have to face my failures at the end of everyday. I sleep a restless, nightmarish sleep.
No one wants to hear a different tune come from myself more than me.