Fog.

Some days, for no seeming reason at all, it feels like I'm walking through a very foggy space. The fog is composed of valiant anxiety and palpitating angst. Tears threaten. But I don't know why. Just. Don't. Know. Uncertainty, tinged with desperation, also mingles in that fog. I can't see it, but I feel it. Heavy. Damp. Slightly dark. I can't see much. But my feelings heighten...when that fog descends, I simmer in doubt and unease.

I wonder, on days like these, like today, if this is a new iteration of my depression. Because I've lived with this for so long, I've gotten really smart and aware about the symptoms and how I need to live to achieve balance. But is my depression like a super-resistant bacterial strain that keeps morphing to ensure its existence?

This time, this foggy, damp time, occurs simultaneously with a glorious, geranium-filled June day. Huh. I just don't get it. No. Answers. So, I will trudge through the fog and know that it has a purpose. But I will grab a flashlight. A light to illuminate the necessity of this time, which will parlay into the next. The next more seasoned, more enlightened time.