The day the lid came off and I met Trevor. Or Norman. Or Jasper.

To a cat, you're bite-sized, via my Instagram

The question is: do you feed your fluff bunnies?

Yesterday, the lid came off. 

Picture if you will the unhinged lid on my Monty Pythonesque head crashing to the floor in one almighty racket and a steady stream of hamsters, slime, useless shiny objects, rainbows, tiny little paper planes and bitten off nails spilling out. 

If I had to draw that meltdown, that's what it would look like. But since I can't draw, I'm writing it, poking every little thing that came out with a pen.

Move over navel-gazing, this is brain-gazing with added loathsomeness - you may want to keep a barf bucket at hand.

Yesterday my thoughts overflowed and splashed over everything in sight. To contain damage, I quietly slipped away into the bedroom, gathered my knees in my arms, placed my forehead atop my knees and surrendered.

Out came chunks of self-loathing, fear, nonsense, doom, sadness and resistance floating in an ocean of tears. Textbook meltdown accompanied by such overwhelming shame that I wished I could shrink to the size of a fluff bunny and be swallowed by the cat.

To be digested at length then expelled back into the world when the time was right, presumably.

Weakness and tears make me ugly, not just because of the snotty mess I become, but because of the nauseating self-indulgence of it all. 

It's a distraction away from the happy, stable and loving life the mistah and I are building together, a life I inexplicably expect to self-destruct before my eyes at any moment.

In the absence of any evidence with which to bolster my fears, my mind manufactures entire mountain ranges out of slight level variations in the ground and I end up running around in circles in my own head, chasing the dark cloud.

The dark cloud that I am renaming Trevor because depression has gotten so personal that it deserves a name. Like Trevor. Or Norman. Or Jasper. 

My reasoning here is that if I out and expose the bastard it will relinquish its grip on my brain, scuttle off into the sunset  with its trevoresque normanish jaspered thoughts of not-good-enoughness and leave me alone to sort through whatever brains spilled out, spoon the goodness back in and shove the rest into the garbage.

Depression, consider yourself busted. 

Also, in true hippie style, I am fighting you with flowers - well, a wort - and I'm not fighting you alone either. 

Because love has got my back and this alone is reason enough to be beaming rainbows and gratitude.