In Pajamas from Purgatory

In Pajamas from Purgatory

I feel its long claw-fingered appendages
Of an ancient and ugly monstrous griffin
In the hair of my goosebumps.
But, I can only see the ominous
Freeze-frame personified destruction
By the slashes and gashes across my psyche,
Left ever-blinking within,
My optical extremities in flashes,
Trying desperately to focus
On the blur of life directly
In front of me.

This is how my seasonal depression
Begins, just only begins, in this
Season of fall, this month of October.
Historically, even with a medical fight,
My psychiatrist's best efforts,
And whatever I can manage to do
To help myself survive this, it still comes.
Set in a seasonal emotional tank of depression,
Weakly treading the carmelized biosphere
That makes breathing and moving
A tragically disabling and chronic chore.

I'll cry hysterically for a while,
Over something that was important at the moment,
And usually, that's when the loss of appetite kicks in.

I already don't want to get out among people,
Leave me as a wallflower in my home.
Anxiety-driven traffic and red light conflicts.
I couldn't make myself get up, get dressed, and go
When the night printed on the symphony ticket came.
The MJ Tribute by the Dallas Symphony
That I'd bought one ticket one month before
The night and the show came, and then went,
With me in pajamas inside my own personal purgatory.

I did it to myself.
I hate this.
It was something I couldn't control.
I could not make myself go
For as much as I did want to be there.
Conflicted. Paralyzed.

And now it's happened again,
This time I defaulted on a deadline.
Oh, dear God, I hate me for this.

I could've done it.
I've done it before.
Ten articles in ten days
Shouldn't have been a problem.
But I don't think I can finish
In the next six hours.
But something must come of this,
Because this is not me,
I can write productively
And this freezing blanket of despair
Scares me into shivers.

I fully researched five articles
On depression.
But when I start writing
My pen puts what's aching
In my own heart, instead
Of relaying facts and figures.

I have to admit
That my bipolar disorder,
And my winter depression symptoms,
As well as the prescription changes
From two doctors in the past week,
Was a lot to have to overcome
To get on with just another day.
Plus, my Mom's dog died.
Excuses just count as excuses though.

So for the time being,
I'll lounge in my pajamas,
Beat myself up a bit,
Experience some emotional rift,
Be a raft on my turbulent emotional sea,
And make sure that I take
All my meds, and feed myself properly.
And I'll promise to hang on
Through this season of my depression,
For seven more months of sun box, till spring.

Maybe tomorrow
I'll get out of my pajamas,
And dress my depression in different clothes.