Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

#557: THIS IS THE MOST DEPRESSING THING I'VE WRITTEN ABOUT NOT BEING ENTIRELY DEPRESSED *

What is it that happens to make things seem possible? Not so long ago, I was bemoaning my fate. My degree in english would forever remain unfinished, I had lost all faith in my ability to write poetry that didn't grate against my finer sensibilities, bathing felt like a sisyphean task against a body that would only generate more filth for the next day's ablutions. I had lost faith in the forward movement of my life.

Time brought me to each small accomplishment and then chewed its way through it. Each thing I looked ahead to appeared finished, already done, because hadn't I just done that, and wouldn't I just be redoing it after the requisite amount of time had passed? In my mind it seemed that everything may as well have been done as left undone. Nothing could be finished and then left alone, though, or it would eventually decay beyond repair, and so I went through the cycle, growing sadder and sadder at the futility of it all. But, neglect is abuse. If I bathed once and left it at that, I would eventually grow a fungus. We can't have that. So I kept bathing again and again and again. I consoled myself with the fact that I at least enjoyed the smell of the soap.

Something has occurred, though, and I'm not sure when or where it started or if it was instigated by any one thing: things feel possible again. When things feel possible for me, I no longer view all efforts as being chewed up and spit out and then swallowed again and regurgitated. It feels like there's somewhere I want to be, and that I may enjoy the trip there. I believe I might even feel satisfied afterward.

So, I look forward to things. Tasks seem less monumental. I worry less.

death get leied

Dirt on the hardwood in my apartment seems to leap up out of the floorboards as weedlike excitable ferns in Spring. Each time I get up from my desk to refill my waterglass or shoo a cat down from the stove, pebbles and litter and lint in all forms stick to the balls and heels of my feet. I first rub one foot on top of the other to work the stuff off, balancing wobbly, and then switch feet. I never learn to put my rubbed foot down in a new spot and end up pressing all the recently removed detritus back into the sole.

On occasion, I find the broom and sweep out the hallway and the worst of the rooms, brushing up an alarming amount of cat hair. Balls of it roll like tumbleweeds when the broomhead sends them floating out from around chair and table legs. When I am done, I walk through the rooms to check on my work. Now my feet pick up a finer grade of filth, filth in its first stage of development after the old-growth dreck has been cleared out.

How do people do it? I think. I bet you they have those wasteful sweeper things with the replaceable damp heads to pick up all the small bits. I wonder how that sort of thing rates on an environmental irresponsibility scale, how it affects their ecological footprint. I wonder about the physical effects of the product's chemicals on ourselves and our pets. I consider running out to the Shoppers Drug Mart to pick one up. Then, I head back to the desk instead. I decide that I'll wear shoes in the house and ignore the first-stage dirt.

down the street

Even so, with the present reasserting itself now and now and now again, propogating its patterns of deterioration and renewal, I am somehow managing to look forward to the next moment. It could be the food and/or the long walks and/or the 5-HTP and/or the lecithin supplement, or it could simply be an upswing from a downswing brought on by what psychiatrists would have me believe to be a chemically disordered brain.

One thing I do know for certain is that I am more likely to sweep the floor over the last couple of weeks than I have been for a long while. I feel less trapped by domestic obligations. I didn't balk when the Palinode suggested that we go shopping for curtains this coming weekend. These things are good.

It is good to eat without also thinking about how this food will soon be shit out and how this will all happen repeatedly until my body stops. It is good to taste the cold air when I inhale in the morning and enjoy the feeling of my expanding chest. I liked waking up today. This is good.



* I'm sure I'll find my funny again soon. I think it's probably squirrelled itself away with a ball of cat hair somewhere. I and the broom will ferret that sucker out, though, sooner or later, believe you me.

My Body, My Bear Suit

"Bachelorette" - Bjork