But the mule, he just doesn't get it
My stats keep going down. What is it you people want? Have I changed so much in the last six weeks? I have become that unentertaining? I'm too tired from being depressed to put together a decent post. I'm doing my best to hide it people, but every night I have to go out and drink so that I can sleep. And then get up four hours later and come in and teach and grade and be coherent and not talk to my friends about falling apart-not talk about the nightmares and the crying jags and throwing up every morning- because they are bored with it and trying to find happy upbeat interesting things so that some readers will come back to the blog, but the stats just keep going down.

And this nightmare depression just keeps getting worse with every day I get closer to my birthday.

I fear I may have jumped from depression to anhedonia. Even blogging, I can even get enthused enough about to put together a post. I think from time to time, "Oh I should post that," but when the time comes I just look at the screen and I don't really care. I should write my oh so eloquent and rage filled rejection of Scientology ( not based on the normal objections to the religion), but I just can't find it in me to do it.

Who is this other person I created? Out of the ashes of Eric, I gave myself a new name and to some degree a new identity. Here I am not limited as I am in the real world-I don't have to worry about physical limitation-if I never mentioned it here, you would never know that I have to deal with it at all. I could have created myself new in this space. "O brave new world that has such people in it." And instead it's the same old me-just with a slightly different name. Juliet was right-What's in a name? Apparently nothing.

Today as I wait for my students to finish their exams, I look out the window and think I made a mistake six years ago. Six years ago when every day was a battle to stay alive, I thought I was doing the right thing. As miserable as I was, as much as I wanted to die, I still got up and went to fucking work and graded the papers of those students and sat through meetings in which I was paid in cookies and cried at my desk and cried on the subway and cried in my apartment and cried in the bars until one would think there wouldn't be any more tears in me. But I fought my way through it. I went on anti depressants. I changed my therapist. I joined a gym. I volunteered. I kept myself busy. Believeing that I was doing the right thing. Hoping that things would change.

But now I think I might have been wrong. What have I done in these last six years? Have I been able to write anything other than this blog? Do I have the strength to even put together an essay? A short story? I have the ideas and the talent. What I don't have is the strength. Have I helped my students? The motivated ones didn't need me. And the rest, well, they were just going through the motions. I live in the same place. What have I done? What have I accomplished? I survived. But I don't believe that in of itself is a virtue. Sure on a biological level it's what you are supposed to do. But I don't place my faith in science any more than I do in religion.

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