The Weather Report – February 2, 2015
Dayton, Ohio, United States
High: 18℉
Low: 6℉
Sunrise: 7:45 a.m.
Sunset: 5:58 p.m.
Humidity: 77%
Dewpoint: 8°
Moon Phase: Waxing Gibbous (and the full moon is tomorrow, don’t forget)
You should wear: Something that will help you to blend in. I’m thinking a cotton-cashmere blend, a spandex-satin blend, or, if you are feeling particularly important today, a velvet-corduroy.
You’re going to feel: Depending on weather or not (har!) Punxsatawney Phil sees his shadow, you will either have day-nightmares about being forced to stand in front of hundreds of ugly screaming people while they take your photo, or if you are lucky, you will hibernate until next year when these 2 options arise once again.
Cloudy skies early in the day with only partly cloudy skies at night. Gusting winds NNW at 15 to 25 mph.
☁
It makes you wonder, why is my depression terrifying and alone and your depression is practically fucking holy? My depression runs its course in the narrow path that subsists between the foot of my bed and the floor space of the bathroom (albeit the entire floor space, I’m not going to short sell this, my depression gets the entire floor, it gets the corners filled with the crumbs that fall off the bottoms of my feet before I step into the shower, the strands of hair, brown to gray to brown, lining the edges of the outside of the bathtub–you don’t get the inside of it).
Your depression is resting above your head, brushing against the short, broken hairs you’ve managed to delicately spit out and maintain, reaching statically towards your depression like a glaring glowing golden crown sent down from the hands of every Queen Mary that ever lived and then died and then waited to royalize you.
My depression is sweating and shivering simultaneously.
My depression is pants underneath more pants.
My depression is stay in when you want to go out and go out when you want to throw up.
My depression is silent with a side of more friends than I deserve or appreciate.
My depression never takes into account that tomorrow’s me has to be me too.
My depression is still the number one fan of your hamstrings.
My depression is unwilling to learn how the U.S. healthcare system works.
My depression is unsure that it does.
My depression sought help once.
My depression seeks to befriend your depression by making your depression seem more glamorous but I don’t think this is the same thing as ‘glamorizing depression’.
My depression just wants you to feel small bit by small bit better, you, your depression and all.
Sarah Jean Alexander wrote a book called Wildlives. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.
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