Dangerous emotional attachments

Thursday, November 17, 2011
Thursday Night On Main Street Pocatello ID 11/10/11
A recovering drug addict once told me that he liked to smoke his cigarettes all the way down to the filter because it would burn his lips and it reminded him of smoking crack. This revelation didn't really shock me, because I am familiar with emotional attachments that are unhealthy.

I am emotionally attached to my depression. It is a constant companion that offers comfort in a strange sort of way. Over time, the colors of grey that define my sad sack life are just as bright as any positive color. Depression tells me what I should feel and how I should react. Which is a comfortable unemotional way to live.

The thought of any positivity becomes a fear, since reacting in a way different than I am used to is scary. Depression becomes an absolute. Your friends come to expect it and nothing else is expected of you. Just showing up will exceed their expectations. No pressure, no anxiety, no fear. It is a safe place to be.

Sadly, I have allowed my depression to become my best friend to the detriment of my real friends, things I love and things that used to define me. Whether it be a note to a friend in need or just going outside with my camera, I have nearly given up on all these things. I want to change this, but my friend, Depression, is in the way.

Today I resolve to make baby steps away from this comfortable but dangerous friend. I will manage a simple task list with simple things, like, write a blog post, take a picture or even have a positive outlook for one hour. As the old saying goes, I am sick and tired of feeling sick and tired, I need a change. I will give it a shot.

Cross posted at Sad Manic & Awake


  1. had to buy new pens today - hang in there

  2. I read last night... and I thought.
    I read this morning... and I thought.
    I have "thunked!"

    Constant companion no matter where I go,
    Be you friend or mere shadow?
    Of thoughts that chase from way back when,
    Now still the writings of my pen.
    You take from me a camera's grace,
    Just to find a quiet place.
    What is the point of moving on?
    If each time I stop I find you haven't gone.
    Along the breeze of time a whisper calls my name.
    Perhaps it's time to live again.


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