Take note: I know depression, and I am not depressed. I have the strength and the sleep reserves and the space to fight in the first place. But the fighting I’ve been doing has been, at times, pathetic. It has been limp-wristed, weak-armed, uncoordinated, and half-assed. And I'm done with that.
I have two versions of my life: The version where taking the time to make pizza feels expansive. I gather all the ingredients. I let the dough rise. Time shoots up and spreads like a veritable fountain of youth, bubbling, making every second new and shining and beautiful. And then there is the version of my life where I give in to hurriedness and efficiency, and even getting takeout is too time-consuming and messy. Dinner is empty and so is my fridge, and I stay where I was before dinner: lost in avoiding the daily and trying to paw my way out of a glass bowl. Every expected squeal from my children is a scratching on the surface of my spinal cord.