Vidal's Verse

I am still haunted by memories and feelings that should have long ago passed. The problematic curse of an almost perfect memory. Do I remember the days perfectly or do I remember her as being perfect?

These are just stories told poetically. This is a place for my words to live. Some lead good lives and others not so much. I would call these Poetic Stories. 

Depression is Something to Own

The Preface: 

Something I never really talk about is depression. Whether it is in my writing or in person it is something I don’t feel anyone needs to know about. I don’t take medication for it and I hide it very well, but its there. I don’t mean to say that its a constant struggle, I think the reason I don’t talk about it is because I feel its something everyone deals with once in awhile. 

The Birth: 

I think this stems from father issues. My father left when I was young, and although I got to see him every summer it wasn’t enough. I think it was hard on my mom with how much my brother and I would cry when it came time to say goodbye to him; in those seldom moments we got to see him. I used to have dreams when I was a child that my dad was back and I would wake up happy, and then when I realized it was a dream I would just be depressed all day. 

The Re-Occurrence: 

Lately I have been questioning it more because about a week ago I slept until about two in the afternoon, something got me down and I went back to sleep after that. I slept nineteen hours in one day, and that was a first, things are always better in dreams when you’re depressed. I think that’s the draw to suicide, a constant dream state. Yesterday I cleaned the rec room all night long which is a bad sign. I once gave a writer friend of mine a ride home and warned him that my car was a mess. He reassured me it was the same with all of us creative types. I then told him about my love of studying people and serial killers and of my past dream of being a behavioral analyst with the FBI. This was before it was fashionable and something to entertain you on TV. I told him serial killers tend to be very nice and neat because people who can not control their own thoughts tend to try and control their surroundings. Since my normal personality isn’t to be overly orderly I knew something was wrong when it started popping up all over the place in weird places, like a rec room. Today, on two separate occasions, I left the checkout counter with nothing to show for me handing over my money. As they called me back, to retrieve my purchase both times, I realized I have a lot on my mind lately. I have found myself saying I need something to shake things up for me, something life changing. As I was dwelling on this dream of a life changing event I realized how selfish I am. I had a life changing experience already and I promised myself that with the second chance I had received life would be different, and it has been until now. Now I’m wishing for something to happen again and my selfishness shines brightest to me. 

The Hope: 

I couldn’t walk after the accident and I said to myself when I can walk again I will walk all the time, and I have. I park far away when going somewhere just to walk more and appreciate it. And I do, appreciate it that is. The reason I don’t feel I need any help with it is because I would never do anything crazy, I always have hope for better days, and hope is the most important thing. Not just hope even, but I expect things to get better. At heart I’m a hopeless romantic and an optimist with big plans. But now more than ever I need to realize destiny is something in my hands, something to own, much like my misery.

All rights reserved and all that bullshit.