Every day can be New Years Eve if you believe hard enough. Every moment. I’m the sort of sickly sweet annoying that believes there’s always a possibility of real, drastic, lasting change that can happen at a moments notice. I also recognize that depression quashes both the arguably “human” urge for change, and the very ability to enact it. Recognizing depression is a single step in recovery. It’s a step that has to be made repeatedly, because even on days where the painted lines on the road match up correctly, and everyone says thank you when they order their complicated latte and the hemp or almond or nonfat cow’s milk steams perfectly, and the sun sets between smog and cloud in such a way that pink and purple dominate the horizon; even when those perfect or contented days happen, depression still lingers like black mold in the window of a Bellingham rental. And the thing about black mold is, you can’t and shouldn’t disturb the spores on your own. It takes a professional, or at least someone who understands the mold. There are a lot of molds that can be easily managed, but some are as deadly as congenital heart failure, all that fluid in the lungs. But really, I don’t know what I’m digressing about. Except that I have to remind myself every day that yes, I am still sick. Yes, I am still fighting for my life. No, it won’t get easier unless I do something about it.
I’m writing to make blogging an aspect of my daily routine. Whatever words come out are worthy because they’re the cement I’m laying for this personal vendetta called ‘some kind of consistency.’ I didn’t blog for three months and before that for six months but I’m closing a gap. My words long for homes as much as I do.