There’s are days when getting up and dressed seem a major achievement. I found clothes! I put them on and don’t look utterly stupid!

But then I feel stupid for congratulating myself over such a tiny thing. How can I be proud of myself, an adult, a parent, over getting myself up and dressed? 

I have to fight this feeling, because depression wants me. Its black tentacles are oozing sinuously closer, to grasp at my heart. I can’t promise I won’t let it; I’ve never been strong enough to fight it all the way off; no, strong is not the right word. I’m certainly not weak; competent? Capable? Knowledgeable? I don’t really know. I know it’s no failing of me or my brain or body that depression lurks constantly, a serpentine cephalopod of silence. It makes me silent; I don’t want to speak, or even sing some days.

When I stop singing, I know it’s bad. Some days tears roll down my face when I’m singing. I can cope with that. If the emotion is still there, I can cope. It’s when it drains away; that’s when I start to crumble.

So today I got dressed. Must remember it’s ok to clap myself on the back. Now I have to go get a parcel; see friends; cook and eat. Must remember to eat, and eat well. Slap away the tiny tentacles that sneakily steal these instructions from my mind: eat, sleep, wash, smile. Cope.

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