It’s just depression, nothing serious.

I do not suffer from depression. I do not battle depression. I have depression and we live together.

In a very short time I will have existed ex-utero for sixty years. I have to believe that depression has been a part of my existence for all of that time. It is just some of what makes me the who and what I am. (along with some other professionally diagnosed mental illnesses). I yam what I yam, right?

I have become rather accustom to it. So much so that I have abandon the medications that are supposed to treat it. To make is less of ‘thang’ to have to deal with. Keep it from interfering with living. Yea, whatever the fuck that means.

You see, I have gotten used to the feelings, familiar with the thoughts and urges. Enough so that when they come, I accept them, follow them through (in thought) and see where they would eventually lead. I know that it is just a combination of a poorly functioning chemical system within my body and some very inadequate copping abilities. It is just me being me. And, when appreciated, run with and accepted, can be rather entertaining.

You see, what depression brings me is the ability to critique the fuck out of stuff. People, Places, Things. Especially myself. Together, depression and I can formulate some fantastic reviews of things. Quality and lighting quick sarcasm is not as much art as I think most people think it is. I think it is a symptom. That is just my opinion.

You see, while medication did diminish the effects of my imbalances what it really did was make me more conscious of what others may think or feel about what I was thinking or feeling. And, that sucks. It makes being unwell worse.

You see, depression is my problem, my issue, my damage, my illness. I have come to an agreement with it. We, together, the both of us, take pleasure and pride in our collaborations. To look at things and form an opinion and to share that opinion without filter. No concern for how that opinion may make anyone else feel. Any reaction to my opinion is the responsibility of the person choosing their reaction.

You see, when the idea comes to hang myself with an international safely orange, 12 gauge, 3 wire extension cord and the idea is not only a good one but the ONLY one, I know it is just my chemicals out of order and that it is just an idea. It is not something that needs to be acted on. I can accept is as the solution to whatever is going and I can not do anything about it too. Not being medicated has allowed me to find the humor in these feelings. Yes, there is a great deal of funny in the things a sick mind comes up with. Expressing them is not just entertaining but it is a necessary part of keeping that shite from becoming overwhelming.

You see, that which comes to my mind MUST be expressed, spewed, shared or it will devour me. What is made in the darkness of my mind can only be made harmless in the light. (Yea, I know, this dark and light shite has been over used and lacks originality but, it is so fucking accurate, had to use it)

So, depression is not my art but it is my tool, my brush, chisel, oil, clay what have you. It is the medium of my art. My art is the the things I say. Good, bad, ugly. Truthful, as I see it. Through imbalanced, damaged, childish, selfish, frightened, inadequate eyes.

I do not suffer from depression. I do not battle with depression. I accept it, collaborate with it, experience it and above all else, I live with it.

This is where I should apologize for making you live with it too but, honestly, I have nothing to apologize for. Living the best life I can for myself is not wrong. Living with all the feelings and thoughts my body wants to give is how I choose to spend the rest of my life. Taking that challenge and making art from it is my choice. I regret not having found this sooner. Life is short.

Peace,

Ant-Knee