Male, working class, Scottish… Yer fucked right from the off there. Can’t finish a sentence without making a joke. Slagging yer pals is the done thing and “ya cunt” is a term of endearment. It’s not that it’s a macho thing… It’s… Cosa nostra, man, it’s our thing… It’s how you know a cunt is a good cunt, know?
But, it can make it hard to talk, hard to cry, hard to “stop the fucking bus” and wait a wee minute in pregnant silence with a close pal… and just fucking say…
I’m guilty of it. I’m a closed book, a loner. I’ll deal with it myself, no need to bother anyone with my shite. They’ve all got their own shite. Make joke, crack smile, make a funny fucking face, everything’s fine.
I never get depressed, just a constant melancholy that I’ve somewhat made my peace with. Somewhat. Never excited, but never broken down in sadness. Only tiny little things make me smile. Male blackbirds. Trees. Clouds. A breeze. All that clichéd shite, man. I can meditate on a tiny moment. That’s my peace. I write my haiku like a coo coo ca choo and that’s my small release.
Depression is another thing – an untamed animal that sleeps amongst the folds of your mind and awakes with fury and vengeance at any time it pleases. Churchill called his the Black Dog.
The Black Dog can be tamed, neutered, sedated into a fog of not-quite-there-ness. But the dog still remains with a bark equally as ferocious as its bite.
Shoving Words 