// the (big) one
| 07/23/2003 - 12:05 p.m. |

Thinking about how I was supposed to be the one.
The one that got better, that achieved the status of genuinely and fully recovered.
Unlike so many I knew who I feared destined to chronicity.
That would not be me.
I was the one people admired and respected and believed in.
Who doggedly and courageously kept on keeping on the road of progress and continual growth and successively reclaiming and expanding all aspects of my life and my dreams.
I was the one.

I now find that relic of history so obviously absurd, hilarious really.
My sense of humor may have turned unrelentingly dark, but it actually seems more present and keener to me than any past era in which I took myself so damn seriously, as if anything meant anything.

We were all so dumb.
So irrationally hopeful.
As if anyone could stop that which was inevitable.
I was so in denial of what I innately knew would unfold.
My journals and emails to C. tell the tale however...
*a collection of these in the next entry*

And still as the beginning of the apocalypse came to bear, I pretended not to know.
I had come to "accept" after all that depression was a burden I would likely bear for life.
But I naively believed that I could handle it, that I could manage the episodes, that the floor would hold strong, that I could keep them from thoroughly debilitating me, that they would remain brief blips on the screen, and I would weather each more resiliently than before.

As if the fault line in my brain was not the San Andreas, with the big one only being a matter of time.

Human idiocy is so comical really.