I really dislike my absentmindedness right now. More so than usual.

For one thing, it only occurred to me right now that I completely forgot to do a Tuesday Newsday. Not that big a deal, really. I try not to get too attached to that sort of thing, both because my absentmindedness virtually guarantees I am going to miss one now and then, and because I want to preserve this blog’s primary purpose as an instrument for expressing what is on my mind and in my heart at any moment, and therefore any sort of restrictive format concept like regular features are secondary to that goal.

I mean, what if I do not feel like doing a Newsday? What if I have something very personal and important that I feel I need to express instead?

Well, then, fuck the regular feature. My recovery, such as it is, is more important.

But the thing I am truly kicking myself in the ass over right now is that I managed to completely forget to make that phone call to make a doctor’s appointment that I talked about yesterday.

Told myself to do it a bunch of times, but between sleep and distractions, totally forgot. And I know there are a million and a half things you can do to keep yourself from forgetting important things.

That is part of the problem. There are too many ways to choose from. But more importantly, they all require you to remember to do something. Remember to jot it down, remember to put it on your calendar, remember to add it to you little alarm lock program… it all starts with remembering.

And that, you know, is my whole problem.

I truly think of absentmindedness as my primary weakness, my bete noire, my tragic flaw. And I have a terrible feeling that on some deep level, I have never overcome it because part of me does not want to get over it. Part of me, in fact, needs it in order to not be overcome by all that has happened to me… and all that has not.

So as much as I struggle with the fog of war that fills my mind and the sand that fills my eyes, I will never truly win, because they are the very things that anesthetize the sleeping horrors of my mind.

Every depressive is an addict, a user, a junkie. We are addicted to the things the depression brings, namely the cold fog that keeps our demons down, and the forgetting that this brings. And until we are ready to face what we flee, we can never be free.

You cannot have the lightning without the rain, the breeze without the storms, or the benefits of depression without the costs.

And the costs can be downright mortal. Either all at once, or over a lifetime without living.

So unchain your beasts. Thaw your monsters. Reach out a hand to the ghost that haunts you. Lean into the pain and drink and devour your fear. Experience it all, without limit or restraint. Bring on the flood.

And know that while you might lose all that you thought you were in the resulting monsoon, you will lose nothing of what you truly are and always were.

It is easy to live in fear of the worst kind of unknown, namely, not knowing who you are. There is nothing more frightening to the human mind than loss of identity. Preservation (or improvement) of identity inspires more acts both great and terrible than any mere religion or economic system.

But the truly powerful are those who can let go of all ideas of who and what they are in order to embrace a greater idea of themselves. Those who can accept change when said change is growth of self. A small and petty idea of who and what you are is more restrictive than any lack of resources or access, especially if the choices you make are to preserve that sense of yourself rather than have to face one second of that terrible doubt about your identity from embracing something larger and stronger and healthier.

That is why I try to remember (ha) that I am not a depressed person. I am a person who has been suffering from a disease called depression for a long time, but that disease is not who I am. It does not define me. I am actually a pretty awesome person with a lot going for me. Depression, no matter how hard it lasts, is just a thing that happened to me, temporary and meaningless as being wet from the rain.

After all, any of us might get caught in the rain and end up soaked clean through. That does not mean we are now Wet People until we dry off.

We are just regular, normal, healthy people who happen to be wet for a time.

Granted, for me it has been a long long time. Most of my adult life, in fact. And no doubt, that has had a deleterious effect on my identity growth.

Arguably, I really have no idea who I would be without the depression. I know who I would want to be, and who I think I could be, and of course, there is the version of me that I fear to be down to my core.

But I do not really know. I have no normal adult identity to return to once I am well. The disease took hold before I had a chance to grow one. So really, it is wide open for me.

But over the days and years of my recovery, I gain a stronger sense of the person I am, and the person I want to be. I unearth myself, and that feels really good to do, even if sometimes I find myself missing the warmth of the tomb.

But you can’t leave and stay at the same time, and I am determined to escape.

I just don’t know when.