A friend once told me that
I wear my depression like an
What kind of an appendage?
A screwdriver on a swiss
Well, in that case,
the depression should be
able to screw in the screws of
an Ikea bookcase.
Or maybe it should be able
to open a bottle of Coke?
The depression is not an
It's a big, fat pain in
the ass is what it is, and it
follows me everywhere we go:
it follows me to the movies,
it follows me to the drive-in
it follows me to the Dr's
Even when I'm chasing the
Lithium and Lexipro with some
No, folks—I don't
I just try to lick the silver
that my parents failed to
provide me with, at birth.
I love my sanity. I
But the truth is, that it
clearly does not love me.
Actually, we're in a love/hate
relationship with each
I've tried to hate it.
I've tried to outrun it—
but it loves me SO MUCH,
that it can now be classified
as my stalker.
I was first diagnosed with
I was in complete and utter
Simply because clinical
depression meant crazy with a
Even though I'd been in
therapy for years at this point,
taking meds made it officially
it forced me to take a very
long and soul-baring look in
What did depression mean
Was I in fact, crazy;
or was I just in need of
a mental and spiritual
I often wondered if sanity
is a permanent kind of existence—or
if it is,
a state of being that is characterized by
a much more transient set of natural laws.
One that is in a never-ending state of flux?
Would I eventually morph into my mother?
A Joan Crawford-like maniac
in a series of really bad 70s-era housecoats?
A cigarette dangling perpetually
from a cracked and lipsticked set of lips.
Was I doomed to meet her fate?
Would I not be able to conquer my illness?
After all, she was an undiagnosed manic-depressive.
But of course, back then,
people who experienced sudden and extreme shifts
were usually labeled as "difficult,"
or, at the very least, "Big bitches."
Was it all as simple as that?
Is that what my mom was?
I remember taking guitar lessons when I was seven
or eight years old.
She had bought me a brand-new guitar
that ended up high above her head and shoulders
during a rage-filled tirade.
I also remember that it came crashing down
on the hardwood floor and
it shattered into a huge mess of splintered wood.
She could've taught Pete Townshend a thing or
about how to demolish a guitar in 10 seconds flat
It leads one to wonder—
Will I, too, have similar tirades and lift guitars
over MY head, and over
Will I, too, forever brand upon the brains of
the horrifying images
of a seven-room apartment being totally leveled—
simply because my spouse failed to buy all of
the items on a grocery list?
Apparently, eggs and honeydew melon missed on
a grocery list
is a trigger for some people.
Sam Cardinale is a
writer and visual artist from the Hudson
County area. He started putting his thoughts down on paper at a very early age;
and that desire to express himself has been with him ever since. This is his
first foray into the online literary world.
Cindy Rosmus is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife & talks like Anybody’s from
West Side Story. She works out 5-6 days a week, so needs no excuse to drink or do whatever the hell she wants She’s
been published in the usual places, such as Shotgun Honey, Hardboiled, A Twist of Noir, Megazine, Beat to
a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, Mysterical-E, and Twisted Sister. She is the editor/art director of the
ezine, Yellow Mama. She’s a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights activist. She has recently been branching
out into photo illustration, under the guidance and mentoring of Ann Marie Rhiel.