Wet depression is a confluence of tears, nose running, rocking, and wet words. In wet depression, you curl around your phone and moan sufferings through your rolled umbilicus. Groans and sighs and sounds without spellings accompany it all. No solution can solve your problems of loneliness, palpable heartache, unspecified and undetectable fears, abandonment, misery. There are over-many words, adjectives, to describe the intensity, roundness, sharpness and depth of pain.
The pain is a bridge, a spiny expanse, from one island to another, perhaps a necessary part of the trip to somewhere else. The other side is foggy or misty, with craggy cliffs or spikey fir trees: hard to tell. The bridge edge is tempting and delicious to look over, with black churning waters with little white foams: Not overly inviting. Little trinkets from your hands plop and disappear into the water.
Dry depression is your face stuffed into the back of the sofa, curled up against its dry, flat teats. Arms are crossed across your chest, and knees bent up. In-breath sharp, out-breath a silent, hot please help into your crossed wrists. The sofa smells of wet dog, and a cat circles in behind the bend of your knees. Open eyes show the close weave of several beiges, a tiny bit of red in and out. Breathe in sharply, breathe out please help, over and over. It’s light, it’s dark, the days go by.
The pain is empty, gnawing and dull. It is an expanse of desert, not the romantic hilly desert of Omar Sharif, but the scrubby desert of caked dirt, grey-green brush and dusty little stones. Abandoned graveyard stones stand in the distance. A scuffed step in one direction, then another. It is possible to die just by stopping and sitting down. Living requires energy.
I pick up a dusty little stone, and put it in my mouth until it is all liquid. Stones are sometimes common looking when dry, beautiful when wet. The stone becomes an opal of reds and greens and blues, its beauty exposed from when this was a sea bottom.