I’ve never been diagnosed with anything in particular, but I would guess, that given over to a team of psychiatrists (or psychologists, I’m never clear which is which), they’d come up with a few things.

Chronic, persistent depression is a given. There’s likely some anxiety and some paranoia, perhaps a touch of OCD and oppositional defiant disorder. Some hypochrondria, maybe.

Comorbidities, they call them, and doesn’t that just sound like such a pleasant goddamn word.

Insecurity, low self esteem, low self opinion, it’s all fucking wonderful.

I like to think of it as incomplete.

Sometimes, it’s a monster that comes around and undermines everything I do. The rest of the time it’s something to get past, to work on, to minimize with the hope of one day eliminating.

Some days, that even feels possible.

Other days, it’s a goddamn demogorgon, a thousand feet tall and surrounded by a horde of baby demogorgons and other nightmares straight out of a Lovecraft novel. Lovecraft, despite the racist overtones, having perfected the art of amorphous terror.

I rely on organization and routine to control the spiral, while simultaneously trying to use that routine to focus only on giving me free time with which to enjoy whatever happens at random. Time with family, a good movie or TV show, laughs with friends. Time to sit and enjoy the sun or a fresh blanket of snow, or videos of baby foxes getting tickled.

Too much organization becomes a mindlocking nightmare. Not enough organization becomes a death spiral.

Life is confusing and fun, isn’t it?

Target: 200 words
Written: 666 words, hip little story: Get Back Again

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