I swear I should just rename this blog "The Back of My Head." So, depression. It's here. It's situational AND biochemical. And it sucks. I'm not even motivated enough to self-harm or contemplate worse. I sleep a lot, and it's not to escape. It's because I can't think of anything else I'd rather do. I have no passion for anything right now. I've got ideas. I've even written outlines. But I can't take the last step to actual writing. I forced myself to take a shower today and it was the most difficult thing I've done in a long time. Every step was. An. Effort. The weather's been gorgeous and the idea of going outside makes me twitch. So, yeah. I go to my usual therapy tomorrow, and I've got a "Crap, I need to see you ASAP" call into my psychiatrist. I just want to care about something again, to have that creative fire burn again. Or, you know, not turn into a vampire. That'd be cool, too.
The back of the house is where theater's black magic happens. It's a place where empires rise and fall, where people love and hate, and the place where gods live and die. And yet, like the man in the movie said, it all turns out all right in the end. It's a mystery. Which is another word for miracle.