Depression Is A Combat Zone

Where was I on
The Eleventh Hour
Of the Eleventh Day
Of the Eleventh Month?

In a waiting room.

At the local community health clinic
In the hopes of seeing my
Psychotherapist.

I guess I missed the cue.
Sorry.

The Two Minutes of Silence part.
Which I have observed
In Uniform
And in Earnest
Many times in the past.

My therapist came out and explained
That she had only agreed to call me
If she had time available,
(I actually suspected this,
But observing such minor boundaries
Was not worth my life...)
Anyway, she gave me 10 minutes of her time,
(A couple minutes of settle down and
Get up cuts off each end...)
Her lunch hour, I acknowledged.
She too is on a mission...
Case load stuff...

My mission was to convince her that,
Despite my assertion that I was
Sooner or later
Bound to commit suicide,
(Her reaction upon hearing this
Had been to begin crying...)

(These things are not lost...)

Despite that assertion,
I was indeed NOT a lost cause.

(I had to sell myself,
If I wanted to live.)

(And indeed I did.)

Some of you might consider this Borderline Stalking,
But to me it was more like coming up
Out of the dark, black depths
And having a five minute glimpse of daylight
Or moonlight,
Or even starlight...
And a hope for another in a week or two...
Before plunging back down...
Into the dark.

Depression is a combat zone,
Of a kind;
If you're in it.

And not the kind you see in the movies,
That naive moralizing version...
Where Good Guys spot and shoot Bad Guys.

No.

It's random;
Relentless;
Pounding.

Like incoming artillery fire.

So that's where I was
At the Eleventh Hour...

--- 12 Nov 2013