Once upon a time…or a twitter post that turned into a blog entry.

Because how different are they sometimes, really?

Yesterday, I thought things were slowly turning around, like a semi backing up in an intersection–you know it’s been going the wrong way but at least now you have hopes of redirecting. I felt my depression letting go and washing off my skin like clumps of dirty sand. I ran 3 miles. They were rough but I ran them. I took a nice shower and I stretched. I forced myself to be social. I ate a decent meal instead of ice cream or nothing. I took a short nap and went to bed at a decent time. And then that semi that was backing up so beautifully, backed right into me, forcefully nudging me with its bumper. The red marks on my legs reacting to its strike warn me I’m about to get run over, but only partially, only enough to feel it and not be able to walk away but not enough to be worth recognizing. I hate it when depression fakes me into me, forcefully nudging me with its bumper. The red marks on my legs reacting to its strike warn me I’m about to get run over, but only partially, only enough to feel it and not be able to walk away but not enough to be worth recognizing. I hate it when depression fakes me out.