… all right, no matter how much an effort I put into keeping a straight face, the phrase ‘deep-ghosting’ always makes me chuckle.
I blame my old friend Brady for a story he told me that I cannot tell people.
For me, beyond its momentary inducements of immature hilarity, it’s always been a phrase that follows the first word of this post: depression.
It’s not one of my usual afflictions, but depression does hit in February with its usual “surprise, now you’re anxious and overthinking everything” starter, then follows up with the questioning of self-worth. It’s a cycle that I’m almost used to, though the severity of the depression varies on how rough the previous months had been.
That it happens right around my birthday every year is just unfair.
When I was younger, this typically resulted in me vanishing from my social circles and contemplating my life choices up till then. That would result in (most often) a terrible decision that I’d have to correct over the course of the next months.
Problem to that is that I can’t do that anymore. My family needs me, and just as important, I need me to be around.
And the dogs need me. JoJo, being 11 and cancer-stricken, is living out the remainder of his time with me as his nurse.
My typical method of self-therapy is not exactly healthy, but for most folks it isn’t seen as self-destructive: work. I normally dive head-first into putting hours away with the mail.
You’d think that after the Heavy Season, I’d avoid this mindset.
The consequences to this pattern should be obvious, but it somehow misses me every year: I suffer physically, and my writing all but stops.
Much like what’s happened this year, only with a twist: I took two weeks off from work as a “birthday gift” to myself. So, instead of whiling away daylight slinging letters, I went into spring-cleaning.
And I know why I do this every year: I need a sense of accomplishment with something. I need to look at something and say it’s finished. Writing can take a long time, and cleaning up is something I can do (no matter what my desk may indicate otherwise).
I took it upon myself to clear out the storage building of the cardboard boxes, sort through anything that’s broken or molded (there was a leak in the wall, had to seal it back) and put everything remaining into crates.
Working on the property gives me that small moment of satisfaction, even if it can be taxing as I grow older.
An unfortunate part of this bout of depression is that, like I mentioned earlier, I tend to ghost everyone (IE I stop returning calls, texts, and avoid eye contact) until I either snap out of it or someone notices what time of year it is and drags me back to the group.
This time, I haven’t snapped out of it, but it’s me that’ll be dragging this sad old man back to the people that make up his life.
In the meantime of getting out of this emotional rut, I have things to do that won’t allow me to indulge in my isolation but still help me find small moments of victory. Such as curating the vast amount of baseball cards I’ve found in one of my boxes and selling them.
How the hell did they survive over 30 years of following me around and still be in good condition? That, I’d love to know.
I can’t say this has been all that healthy for me, but it has been cathartic.
To everyone who’s been messaging me, or wondering where I’ve been, I’m coming back and will get caught up with you.
Stay safe out there, folks.
-JB Swift
Swift's Corner 