Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

There are moments when the soul crushing depression hits and I’m crippled. My own voice betrays me that, if I even try to cry, it’ll crack. I hold a sob. In the stacks, I’m scanning the books. I’m putting them in order. I try to regain my balance, because it’s been too long since I’ve managed this on my own. Veronica once told me that I found my balance in the person I love. And it’s true. Back then, when I took a stumble for the worse, Jeanna was always there to keep me from falling. Now that’s all gone and I’m back to doing it by putting things in order. By fingering a coin. By counting the ceiling tiles. The steps I take in a day. By staring at white walls and hoping that I can center myself.

Today, at work, I did my best to regain my stride. The problem is, the more I tried to center myself. The more that I tried to keep the monster out. The more I did to hinder the disease. The more I sank deeper. Like struggling in quick sand. And what do you say to people without revealing your secret? That there’s a voice living in your head whispering negativities? How do you say it with a straight face?

Circumstances have changed. This demon will not be ignored.

 

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