Sunday, the morning sunlight bright. The sun was accompanied by the kind of fuzzy haziness that never quite burns off, despite there not being a cloud in the sky. I put my sunglasses on and wore a big grin.

“You seem depressed. I’m concerned.”

“Me? No, I’m very happy. I’m having a great time, I love Scotland.”

Later: “I meant depressed in general. Seeing you happy here only highlights how unhappy you are at home. Your interests have changed, which tells me something’s wrong. You don’t talk about the house renovations. You don’t care about the garden. Your blogs sit neglected amongst the weeds.”

(And itÂ’s true, they do. IÂ’ve been neglecting you. IÂ’ve been cheating on you with Apathy, whose kisses make my knees weak and make me forget what IÂ’d wanted to tell you.)

And the usual accompaniments follow from me: Maybe I am, but this too shall pass. I love you very much. ItÂ’s not you, itÂ’s me. I am, but we know why I am. They sound trite, but I mean them whole-heartedly-he is my rock.

Back in the Big Smoke, I curl up on the couch which has become the second home for by burgeoning Id and Ego (the two of them got my Superego drunk and left it in the alley behind the Irish pub. Those crazy Freudian kids.) He doesnÂ’t mind that I take my boots off, and even kindly admires the chipping nail polish on my toes, one more thing I havenÂ’t done that needs doing. I tell him that everything makes me feel tired. I donÂ’t have the energy, or the interest. The house is a wreck, mostly because every day is a London Day for both of us lately, we work into the night and by the time weÂ’re done we donÂ’t care if we havenÂ’t folded laundry since 1992, we just want 10 minutes on the couch then the sweet haven of bed. I havenÂ’t been cooking and I havenÂ’t painted my toenails and my closet is threatening a military junta if I donÂ’t organize it.

IÂ’m busy in the backseat of a 1954 Chevy with Apathy.

In every day there are 24 hours. In those hours, 1440 minutes. Worse, there are 86,400 seconds in a day. 86,400 seconds, and each one of them marching up and down my face like little Pixar ants. In every one of those 86,400 seconds I am waiting for that second to pass and get me to the next one, in case that oneÂ’s better. That one might be better, you never know, that might be the one that blows the fog off.

“I hate depression,” I tell him.

“If I tell you that it’s not depression, it’s grief….then what’s your response?”

Fuck you, thatÂ’s my response. Fuck you and your fucking grief.

“Grief’s left. Grief overstayed his welcome, and he took the fucking TV Guide, the good one, the one that summarized all the shows and rated them with little TVs. The more TVs, the better the show, and I need that kind of visual approval system. Grief’s a shit.”

Grief is so boring I can't believe it.

There are good things in life. Angus and his almost always glad to see me when I get home from work. The dog, the dog, the dog (weÂ’ll lay on the floor and try to see what to watch on TV tonight, Buddy. I promise. We did it last night, and you fell asleep with your head on my arm and you snored and I loved you so much it hurt.) Amazingly, the Flickr 365 Days project occupies my head and gets me thinking, makes me look forward to something-and this pic got chosen as that latest 365 Days icon, which, ok-itÂ’s no Nobel Peace Prize, but it made me feel good. Lloyd (our former roommate) and I see a movie most Tuesday nights. Sometimes the movies are good and sometimes theyÂ’re not. It doesnÂ’t matter, we always have a laugh, eat popcorn, and enjoy going to the films. Tuesday night it was The Departed, and I get blown away by the acting while the actors are busy blowing each other away.

ItÂ’s Fall, my favorite time of year. ItÂ’s approaching Halloween, my favorite holiday. IÂ’ve broken out the sweaters and boots, my favorite clothes. I take comfort in these little things, and have them see me through some 1,000 seconds. Other seconds are marked by sleeping tablets, vacant staring and, on the weekends, alcohol (we were drinking too much, and thus drinking is restricted to weekends only.)

ItÂ’s not so dire. I am getting better, itÂ’s just slow. The blog suffers, and for that IÂ’m sorry. I send you virtual Target socks as an apology.

Today, London.

Tonight, IÂ’ll cook dinner. IÂ’ll paint my toenails. Hope to get to the grocery store, but work is hell and I have approximately 30 free minutes between conference calls today. Beyond that, donÂ’t push. Baby steps, after all. Baby steps.

-H.

PS-I've joined the lovely April's new Flickr group called What do you want? You can ask me there for three things you'd like to see of me or my life, and I'll be as accommodating as possible. You can post a request on my picture, or, alternately, you can leave it in the comments here.

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