The Bloody Doors Off

It used to be I loved the nighttime. That’s when the world came alive for me.

I would travel downtown and walk the streets. The lights were amazing. The shuffle of people going off to various points in their lives. Out to party, a late night bite to eat. Or the pure quiet at 3am. Randomly choosing a street to walk down. Wonder who lived behind those big oak doors.

That was before the depression. Or at least, before I became aware of my depression. Granted, I’ve suffered from it since a young age. But it usually came in bursts and then went away. Okay, that’s not entirely true. High school was awful towards the end. I’d sleep in, not go to classes. It’s amazing that I graduated. But after that, I took a government sponsored class in computers which launched me on my career path. I was writing. Performing improv. I think… I think I was too busy, too distracted, to be openly depressed for any stretch. There were bad times, but usually brief. And always at night.

Ah night. How I loved you, yet every once in a while… I truly feared you. And I liked trying to conquer my fears.

Then I fell for my best friend. She fell for me. But she lived across the border, and when we finally managed to get together… things had changed for her. It crushed me and sent me back to the doctor.

And was finally diagnosed. I ended up on a leave of absence from work. I couldn’t function. It took me the better part of a year to cope. Which I do now. Cope.

But the nighttime. It scares me now. Even with the anti-depressants, the mood stabilizers. I fear the dark. It eats away at me. Nights like tonight, home alone with my thoughts. Dangerous. Too many distractions.

I’d rather be writing other things; working on the book, or a new play, or the movie idea that’s in my head.

I suppose this is a start though. I’m writing something. And that’s another fear entirely.