Pining for Prozac

 

Alright, so I am a repeat offender—falling off the face of blogging when I specifically made plans to post with some semblance of regularity.

Lately the gods have been trifling with me, and my days have become a horror B-movie, campy and bizarre but not always in a good way. Tending to days that have hopelessly unraveled seems to be all that I have been doing for weeks now. I feel old, tired, beaten, depressed, disillusioned—all the negative things that we Prozac ourselves against. No explanations, no more discourses. I am sick of words, of lies, of lawyers, of rumor mongers. Mostly I am just so tired, tired, tired of it all.

Family and friends have been kind and loving throughout this ordeal, and this dependable fallback makes the days, gradually, less and less unbearable. Two days ago I actually felt a little bit lighter while crossing the street, flitting in and out of reach of buses. Light enough to step away from instead of into oncoming traffic. This week, I vow to enable myself to smile and mean it.

The simple act of blogging means I am just starting to feel like myself again. Whoever that person is.