faith, life, depression, struggle

Monday, May 3, 2010

A weekend of rest (and dogs)

Visited my sister's home, where we had seven dogs to help us "relax." Which, actually, my sisters and I managed to do. Funny how the dogs "pack up" and assume roles to keep order. Kind of like us humans.

After Thursday night's drop into another depressive phase, I've gone up on one med, and it has helped (with doctor's approval, of course). The relaxing weekend also helped a great deal, which was timely, as the workplace is rather stressful just now.

I feel much better, but at the same time, I find myself confronting anew the severe limits on my competence in every corner of my life. I am a mildly capable individual, but I screw up a lot. There are platitudes aplenty covering that subject; no need to revisit those here. But the fact is that human existence is an unforgiving proposition. Mistakes haunt me all my life, whether I'm aware of them or not (and I often become aware of them as patterns emerge in the chains of failure that have characterized my life). I generally don't forgive myself because I haven't encountered much forgiveness from others, at least that I'm aware of. If they don't forgive, why should I forgive myself?

That does not extend to my regard for others, however. I am quick—maybe a little too quick at times—to forgive. I bruise way too easily, and that is my fault, no one else's; still, there are times when I get hurt, realize it's my propensity for letting things hurt me, and blame myself alone, even if someone else actually said or did something cruel or unthinking. It comes around, yet again, to my failure, as evidenced by my failures.

So, even now, calmed, even feeling positive about things generally, I am aware of how thin the ice is beneath my feet. Catastrophe is just under the ice, plainly visible as it looks up to me through the translucent sheet. A single misstep, and I am doomed; and I make that mistake frequently. Doom is my lot, and it is my deserved state of being.

I fully expect that at some point I will be one of the homeless people least able to fend for himself, a nameless victim waiting to happen. History marches over those graves with impunity. I am not even a number; I am just bones and organic material waiting to be pressed into oil by heat and pressure and time. My value is measured by the price of crude, nothing more.

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