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Depression

Depression

Is 40 Days long enough for a grown up “time out?”

May 4, 2017

It’s been awhile since my last post. My calendar tells me that 40 days have lapsed. Even if you were to go way back to nearly forgotten eras when life moved syrupy slow and Blockbuster let you check out hot new VHS releases like “Back to the Future” for 2 days before charging late fees, a lot could happen in 40 days.

Some of these 40 day events were paradigm shifting. Noah endured a really long rain storm, and Phileas Fogg made it halfway through his trip around the world in 80 days. Others slip by with hardly any notice, including the lifespan of the female mosquito, which begins and ends in 40 days. (While it may not be relevant here, reminding new people you meet that females are the bloodsuckers, which allows them to live a lot longer than their docile male counterparts, makes for a great conversation starter.)

40 days is also traditionally considered the duration of a grown-up version of a meaningful “time out.” (Lent and our wait for the next season of Game of Thrones are good examples.) This is a time to step back from the busyness of life to reflect on our priorities, to focus on important relationships, and to fix our broken parts.

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Depression

“I Can’t” because Depression Lies

March 25, 2017
Maple Leaf

Charles Dicken’s introduced the classic Tale of Two Cities with one of the best opening lines of all time:

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…

I could really use an introduction like that for this post. The Spring Equinox has just passed and I should be busy dusting off my neglected Bucket List. We picked an “easy” item from the List as a warm-up. Monica and I are leaving for Venice to eat pizza in St Mark’s Square. I’m supposed to be practicing my Italian. At least enough to say, “Hello, Domino’s Pizza? Yes. We would like to order a large Supreme pizza please.”

 

Instead, I’m losing a battle with this bastard of a companion who is determined to keep me imprisoned. I refer to him as “Eddie, my inner editor,” but his clinical names are depression, anxiety, and PTSD (Eddie is far more palatable, right?). Continue Reading…