I don't know what sins or bad things I have done in this life time or in a past life to be punished like this. If I could make it better by penance of some kind, wearing a hair shirt, fasting , I would do it gladly. I would make a pilgrimage. I would self flagellate, I would do something, anything, to make this depression go away. It's choking me so hard right now I feel like I am drowning in a morass of black fog, choking off my windpipe, clogging my lungs, blocking my arteries so my heart cannot beat.
I feel like if Dante could get in my head he would discover another level of hell to write about .Those of us who live with depression but are not dead. Yet. The walking dead, the wounded. Those without hope. Those without dreams. Those who aren't living anymore, but are merely existing. Those who have the proverbial gun in their mouths, can taste gun metal, fingers on the trigger, hear the bullet in the chamber, the click- and don't have the balls to pull the trigger hard enough to set the gun off.
Greek Mythology has a nice myth about Pandora- opening the box and letting all the horrors of the world out- and the last thing to come out of the box is hope. Hope. There is always hope. At the darkest night before the dawn there is hope. A marvelous, magical thing that can get people though the most horrific things in the history of the universe, nature made acts, war, abuse.
But when hope is gone, how quickly would it be to pull that trigger? See your brains splashed out all over the walls, like something out of "Pulp Fiction"?
Right now, for the last several days I am in the worst depression since 93. It's so bad I can barely get out of bed to urinate or feed the cat. I don't have the strength to get dressed, to eat, to do the simplest personal hygiene. But I am alive. That is something.