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.

#625: I'VE GOT THE JOY, JOY, JOY, JOY DOWN IN MY HEART

Photobucket - Video and Image HostingOkay, so in an entry two posts ago, I went on and on complaining about my life and how I don't have what I want and I don't want what I have, and it hit me that I'm in a slump. In fact, it hit me that not only am I in a slump right now, but I have also been in a slump for quite some time. If you were to look back through the last couple of winters' worth of entries, you would roll your eyes and say This is sooo old already, lady, it's sooo last January, and then you would write me an e-mail telling me how fucking awesome Effexor or astral travel or that avocado detox diet is.

The thing is, I do this every year. I'm depressed and/or anxious on and off all year 'round, but winter always raises the bar for whatever lovely mindfuck my brain chemicals can deliver, and then I wait until January to admit that the things I have been trying (diet, exercise, non-pharmaceutical medicinal agents) are only just barely bouying me above the waterline, and then I consider trying pharmaceuticals again, even though every experience I've had with several different medications has been thoroughly awful (that side effect that makes people spontaneously want to commit suicide is real, people), and then I decide that spring is coming right away, and that I can hold out, sure, because things will get better, except that they don't get all the way better. Then Spring. Then Summer. Then Repeat.

So, I'm doing it again. Because I've always done it. Since I was two years old, at least as far as the emotional end of it goes.

This is my favourite thing, too. I love it. It warms the cockles, it does. Death anxiety? Like warm, slippered feet next to a fire. Crushing insecurity? Like a hot mug of cocoa with those mini marshmallows floating in the foam. Brooding depression? Like cuddling baby bunnies on a field of new grass.

I kid. It sucks. But I've been treating myself fairly well through it. If I don't want to leave the house, I don't. If staying in would be self-destructive, I leave. I've been eating vegetables and fruit. I've been knitting a handsome scarf. Onion's a great cuddler and doesn't mind if my holing up sometimes means infrequent bathing.

I think I just need to be all wah-wah-wah for a while, really whine this fucker out until it's got no oxygen left. You'll love it. It'll be your favourite thing. Like that little rush you get watching blue sparks fly from Wint-O-Green Life Savers when you bite them in a dark closet. You'll be begging for more woe-is-me, hell-is-here, your-god-hates-me crap. Honest.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to self-hypnotize myself to happiness and fulfillment:

And dive whole-heartedly into the world of extreme blending.