Normally, when it's time to write about what goes on here I have to hold back a little. There is so much material to share; I could fill pages with what takes place on any single day or night. However, this morning (Sunday, 10:45) I've been staring at this paper for 30 minutes and still don't know what to say. Do I write about how sad I've been the past couple of days? How lonely and depressing the weekends are? Or how for the first time in my life I am dreading the arrival of Christmas? Perhaps I could write about how all I want to do is have a good cry by myself. But, there is no place where that can be accomplished. There are always people around, no such thing as privacy. Yes the "black dog" (depression) has returned and is deep inside me at the moment. About every three weeks, it rears its ugly head and stays for a couple of days or so. It's times like this when I wonder why I can't adapt better. I mean, you see guys laughing and joking all the time. They approach each day with seemingly not a care in the world, like the time spent here is more of a homecoming with old friends, a vacation perhaps. Why do I carry this shame and guilt with me constantly? Why do I tread so lightly, afraid of each step I take, thinking one false move could lead me straight to the box? With some inmates, time spent in the box is simply the cost of doing business. They could care less.
But you know what; I'll never get to that line of thought, never! I won't reach a level of disrespect and the prevailing rally cry of so many here, "I'm the victim" mantra. Hopefully, I will shake my depression in a day or so, in order to feel better physically at least.