NaPoWriMo 4

What it issynpase

Depression is not sadness
because it rained again
or your job sucks
or the bills are overdue.

Depression is not grief
over divorce
the death of a parent
or even a child.

Sadness, grief, can trigger it
can set it off
but it is not them.

Sadness goes when the sun comes out
the bills get paid
or you stop worrying about them.

Grief even goes, softens, with time
with wind
with new loves and new lives.

Depression
doesn’t.

My depression
(and I say mine because it was mine,
is mine,
intimately and completely,
wrapped around me
suffusing me
being me)

My depression is from eagerness.
Overeagerness of some transport proteins,
specifically,
in my brain.

They are nice little guys, normally,
the clean-up crew,
mopping up the neurotransmitters when a thought is done,
so my brain can rest up for the next thought,
so the little molecules can be recycled
and used again
(posters on the walls of my brain:
“Go Green! Practice reuptake!”).

But then,
for some reason,
they got carried away.

Started showing up for work early.

Mopping too fast and too hard.

Cleaning up before the job was done.

So if I thought,
“I should get out of bed”,
before I could move,
they were there mopping up,
taking away the serotonin,
the norepinephrine,
the foods of resolve.

And I was back in bed.

And if I thought,
“we should pay the bills”,
before I could move,
whoosh.

And I was back in bed.

With just enough chemicals to worry
and hurt.

None left
to do
anything else.

I like to think that the transport proteins are good-hearted,
well-intentioned.
Just trying extra-hard to make their quotas.
And no one told them there was a problem.

Maybe one of them found a new kind of mop.

“Hey guys, look at this!”

Whoosh whoosh whoosh.

Or there was a fad for early rising.

(More posters:
“Do not tarry, don’t be slow,
Clean that synapse, go, go, go!”)

And whoosh.

I was back in bed.

But now I am fine.
We have sent in the transport blockers
and they stand in the way
put out a foot and trip the moppers when they mop too fast
knock over a bucket
or sidle up next to one and whisper.

“Hey, bud,
word is you’ve been working real fast lately
real, real, fast
making the rest of us look bad
and that’s making some important people unhappy.
Know what I mean?”

So now they work again at a measured pace,
and thoughts can lead to action,
I can feel happiness and joy
and sadness and even grief.

They come and they go.
And I am fine.

Except once in awhile,
I still need to curl up in bed
under the covers
and let it
wrap
around me.

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