Depressed again, still; and some territorial anger about the causelessness of such depression

If I'm honest about it—and I've been trying not to be—I've been fighting another wave of depression for the past two, maybe three weeks now. I've been feeling disconnected and deadened—unable to interact with people or with the activities I love. I've still been getting out of the house—quite a lot, actually—but while that may help in the moment it seems to be doing fuck all to improve my overall mood. This is making me scared and short-tempered, lonely and bored (because I enjoy nothing and can focus on less), so that's a lot of fun. I've been trying not to acknowledge it, but denial wasn't doing much in the way of improving things either.

I thought I was done with this go-around with the black beast. I thought I had waded through the depressive episode and I was back to normal old semi-miserable but not-unusual dysthymic me. Not so, it seems.

I've been feeling strangely territorial about depression these days. I know of friends, of strangers going through rough times because of this-or-that world event, this-or-that personal crisis—and I know the issues they're having as a result are valid and real, I do, but somehow I wish they would leave depression for poor fucks like me. I wish there were a word, a better set of words, to separate situational depression from depressive mood disorders. There is something of a difference, in that a major depressive episode does not clinical depression make—but there's still enough overlap that I want to say: No. Mine. These are my moods, my problems; stop treading on my territory with your own moods, problems.

Which is fucking petty. The reasoning behind it is less about others than it is about myself: I don't want to have to justify the why of my own fucked up brain. I don't want to hear "I don't understand why you're upset" or "do you know what's causing it?" There are no explanations, no good reasons. No one did anything horrible, the universe hasn't shat on me in any spectacular way. There is nothing except that this is who I am—this is my brain, you see; this is what it does, and that's all there is to it.

I've often wished that there were something traumatic in my background beyond a troubled relationship with my mother. I've often wished that the world did screw me over. I wish there were something there that I could point to, a root, a problem—something with a hope of solution, but also something simpler—something to blame. But there is no such thing and knowing that, the only recourse I have, the only explanation I have, is that there is none—that this is just something that happens. I stand hissing over my own gray territory, pissing in its corners and threatening those that come near, because perhaps if I can claim it it will be real: miserable, but mine, and there, and seeing it so well protected everyone else will leave it well enough alone.

Here I append as I always do: if I seem needy, moody, quiet, or as if I'm communicating poorly right now, it is once again not you, but me—and now you know why.

Here I also append: if you are one of the people going through issues right now, if you believe my territorial anger could in any way apply to your experience, if you want to argue about how it's not just situational or not just an episode, know again: this is not about you but about me, and while I do not mean to undermine your experience—for which I probably have much empathy—this sad little post is about my anger, irrational and potentially hurtful but not personal nor meaningful. It's stupid. It's selfish. It is how I feel, right now.

Book Review: The Devil's Alphabet by Daryl Gregory

Title: The Devil's Alphabet
Author: Daryl Gregory
Published: New York: Ballantine Books, 2009
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 381
Total Page Count: 88,606
Text Number: 254
Read Because: personal enjoyment, borrowed from the library
Review: Switchcreek was once a small town like any other, until a mysterious disease swept through, killing many residents and transforming even more into one of three new humanoid species. Pax is an even rarer oddity: a human left untouched by the disease. Now, 13 years after leaving, Pax returns to his childhood home to attend a friend's funeral, and his stay in Switchcreek may reveal much about his own past and the town's strange biology and society. The Devil's Alphabet's intrigue is its premise. Unusual and often mysterious, Switchcreek's strangeness is what grabs the reader's interest and holds it through the length of the novel. Gregory often manages a balance between confusion and explication that avoids frustration while encouraging constant investigation, a recipe for a compelling, addicting novel. But the unusual premise—and the emphasis placed upon it—is also the book's greatest weakness. Many questions offered by the premise go unanswered, which is realistic and understandable but also leaves the book without a strong conclusion: the premise ends at it began, complex and mysterious, begging another look—but offering none.

The emphasis placed upon the premise meanwhile overshadows other aspects like character and plot. These aspects do still exist, of course: Pax rides the edge of antihero, making him at once deeply flawed and sympathetic, and the distinctly human, uniquely alien individuals and societies of Switchcreek offer significant interest and depth; together, this makes for a strong cast of characters. The plot, built on the mystery of Pax's friend's death, is solid but unremarkable. It goes through the motions of beginning, middle, and end; the problem comes when the plot ends and the mystery of the premise, which has capitalized the reader's attention, continues. Would that more of Pax's childhood had been brought to light to put more emphasis on his childhood friendships and more of the reader's focus—and satisfaction—on the characters and plot. As it stands, Alphabet is unbalanced—not so much as to distract from the pleasure of reading it (indeed the book is almost compulsively readable), but enough to leave a lingering question at the end: "What that all?" I recommend the book with reservations. It's intriguing, often compelling, but in its conclusion it's inescapably flawed.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

I stumbled upon this book once on Amazon and once on my library's new books shelf, and each time what caught my eye—enough to check the blurb, enough to pick it up off the shelf—was the cover. I don't know if I've ever seen an image which is quite so subtly scary beyond all reason. It's amazing what a small inversion of expectations (ha, literally!) will do.