So Owen Wilson tried to kill himself. Much to the surprise of the public at large. A personality characterized by easy-going, laid back affectations masked a deeper darker streak. That seemingly had had enough. Of something.
I get it. Totally.
Not the attempted suicide part, although I can understand where he might have been coming from. With the depression thing.
Depression is a cruel, cruel mistress.
Incidious. Relentless. Exhausting.
She's paying me a visit right now. Despite my adhering to the Better Living Through Chemistry way of existance. I've got the blue funk, the blue meanies, the blues.
Spending too much time inside my head. Too consumed within myself. It's not good. But I'm having a hell of a time trying to shake it.
This shit happens to me ocassionally. I think it's residual, actually -- a byproduct of the stress I've been toting around. While Will's starting kindergarten was a fairly smooth transition for him, it took a toll on me. A new school, new teacher, new routine. I didn't know anyone who would be part of his daily education entourage. Coming from a place where I knew everyone and had settled into a comfortable lull, this was unnerving. And then the cancer scare with my mom -- and since I wasn't supposed to know, I threw on an extra layer of anxiety.
I'm not surprised that Miss Depression saw an opportunity to come in and pay me a call. And I just keep retreating.
Damn, do I hate this. Really hate this. I'm writing in the hopes that I can exorcise some of the demons out, transferring my emotions to the page. Where hopefully they'll stick. And stay.
I'm full of contradictions now -- the siren's call of isolation juxtaposed with feelings of extreme lonliness. The need to make a change and get about the business of being me juxtaposed with apathy and indifference. Self-loathing coupled with selfishness.
I've fought this battle before. I'll come 'round here eventually.
But it will be just a battle that ends.
Not the war. That seems to be everlasting.
At least from where I sit.