And another thought

Some days you get no posts, some days you get two. . .

When I was younger, depression was always lurking just around the corner.  I was brought up to believe that it was something that controlled and ruled.  Needless to say, I spent many many days under the grey blanket or worse, the black one.  It came when it did and left when it was finished.  It never occurred to me that I had any choice but to accept it, until I was 29.  That's a damn long time to be subject to such an awful waste of time and energy.

The depression is has been banished, but I didn't lose the manic high, for which I am eternally grateful (and responsible; no more lackey to the whims of some faulty genetics).  Now, sometimes life is so crisp and clear, like cold water or stars in the middle of the night.  Usually it's the tiny things that spark a high.  Today I was in Starbucks in Hillcrest, was waiting for my tall blonde, when a 20 something kid placed an order for a coffee and his credit card wouldn't work, despite some conversation with the barista who took it well and some examination of the magnetic strip on the back of his card.  He was about to walk out of the story (this should have been store, but I like story better) when I stopped him and paid for his drink.  He was so grateful and so startled, I didn't expect it, likely he didn't either.  We chatted for a moment and I told him to pay it forward and I believe he will.  If I can purchase a high with $2.65 for a coffee that I don't drink, it's a good price.

For years I have been so utterly desperately desperate to run.  When I was in boot camp, running was fine.  I had two memorable runs.  The first one was a five mile platoon run toward the end of training.  I was just behind our company commander.  She was a major if I recall and I carried the guide on (flag) the entire way behind her, yes, it was heavy toward the end of the run but, I don't think my feet touched the ground.  The second one was our final PFT (physical fitness test).  Private Shimp had already washed out of her first platoon due to an injury and had been recycled into ours.  If she didn't make the test, she'd be discharged, which she surely didn't want. Her dad was a Marine.  I knew I could run a lot faster but she was seriously not going to make it so I stayed with her, despite a big dose of abuse from more than one drill instructor. . . I'd be failed if I didn't keep running, run, run, run. . .  I just couldn't leave her.  We both finished just under the time limit.  High.

Now I feel as if I'm turning the corner, not just physically, which would never have been enough to really run, I just know it.