Clinical Depression?

“New York, New York…”

The words of Frank Sinatra’s song on his love of the city highly resonates in my soul. But I am smack down in the middle of the Big Apple, it still is difficult for me to be motivated to go out. I haven’t been out for about two days, straight.

In fact, I’ve been wasting my youth watching TV on Netflix and trying to find something interesting to write. It’s true, I have had a mean case of what you would call writer’s block. And it’s awful. I have actually suffered from writer’s block for some time. Not in the usual way that most people have it. Instead, my writer’s block has come from a special place in hell. Contrary to what most people believe writer’s block to be, I haven’t been able to finish one single story. I cannot even begin to describe the piles upon piles of hand written stories that I have started. The one thing I can promise is that none of them have an ending. That doesn’t even include the ones on my laptop; the one that died that is. Before I had discovered the world of google drive, I placed all of my files on a non-automatic saving program. I’m sure you can all guess what it was, but in my attempt to not upset anyone I’ll leave it to your imagination kiddos.

With my vision not laying eyes on the light of day for quite some time, I became undeniably “under the weather”. My self diagnosis was presented to my aunt in a very blunt, “I think I’m clinically depressed.” With this she looked at me with slight concern and confusion.

“Why do you think that?”

My gaze never actually met hers; something I had had a problem with since as long as I could remember. Simple fact was I couldn’t describe it to her. See, the conversation that actually came to be did not match the one I had thought up just  minutes before. What I had suspected was the conversation stopping dead in its tracks after my presentation of that “shocker” (the shocker being my self diagnosis of depression). But I guess I should have thought that one through more thoroughly. I had forgotten that I was dealing with a psychologist; a professional in the world of psychobabble. Unfortunately to some, I do harbor the same resentment to anyone telling what I hold “deeply” inside my brain. I take comfort in the theory that no one knows me better than myself. An interpretation would be my subconscious is my own and I know every inch of its towering four walls.

Also I am terrible at endings, so this would be my brilliant conclusion to my post, Toodles!

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