when you keep a secret for a very long time, when the words are finally uttered they just don't seem as big and powerful as they were when you just thought them. this is where I am today. I have written thrice about being under the influence of the d. Yet here I am, on a Monday afternoon sitting in my bedroom reading about music from Nick Hornby's brilliant songbook and I feel a little foolish. I'm not one of those people. those people who speak quietly about being so upset they didn't eat for weeks and the only contact they had was with those pesky telemarketers. and that was not enough to break through the smoke and haze to illuminate the days. I'm not like that.

I am a very high functioning person. That is what I would write about me, were I a patient of mine. I function well under stress. The problem, you see, is that I am not really functioning well under stress. The problem is that every step closer to stress brings me closer to the big d, and I've been waltzing toward the maypole of stress for quite a long time. my dance in and out of the ribbons has created a very lovely pillar of publicly aknowledged accomplishment, but that pillar is made up of a netting of strands of stress. pretty to look at from the outside but a mother to try to unravel. And now that the degree is done and the work is over I am left to unravel.

Unravel, I shall.

So I feel guilty for being glum, and foolish for saying I am feeling glum. And I feel stupid for even saying it out loud, because now I have to admit just how silly and self-absorbed depression really is. If I were starving to death and being forced to work in the mines just to try to protect my family from the company town would I have time to worry about whether or not my heart was filled with joy? I think not.

further unraveling. further thinking. diarrhea of the brain.