Depression

An old poem marks a moment in time

It is interesting finding old poems.

I process through a pen. and I have for a long time. And finding old poems that mark, moments in time, is often very encouraging. When I was recovering from spinal meningitis I wrestled with depression. The doctor told me that it was normal. Traumatic brain pressure leaves a wake. I still have ‘pain memory’ when I get dehydrated because my brain built a warning system. Ghost headaches.

But what I don’t have is this depression. I remember it. It came in waves. It was sub-rational. I’m also grateful that the doctor was right that my brain would eventually heal.

Depression

Why would anyone call it ‘depression’?
Depression implies a shallow dent.
A footprint.
A grave, dug and refilled, but left empty 
so that the outline of the man-
hole can still be seen, 
but just as a depression.

Depression is a hole.
A deep.
With iron sides.

It is cement poured in a stomach.
It is every heartbeat a stab between the ears.
It is a clawed hand with boa constrictor grip cracking ribs.

But perhaps I can fetter it in verse.
Tame it into words.
Like a circus tiger
that jumps through hoops of dark fire.

Because I, looking at me, know 
that I don't know if I believe 
that it is never going away.
At least not until the grave is full, 
Then there will be no more shallow dent.
No more
depression.