It's My Pie...

It's my pie...

The way I describe my depression is that I'm a piece of pie; missing a piece.  Now, you can fill the missing piece with another piece of pie, say, an apple pie, but my pie is blueberry pie.  So, the apple pie fits into the missing piece, but it will forever be an apple pie in a sea of blue berry, it doesn't fit, it's not going to fit, and sure it may taste good, but the truth is, it's not blueberry, and that feeling, that nagging feeling in the back if your mind, that blueberry is not apple, and apple is not blueberry, starts to drive you crazy.  So you do this.

You try to fill the piece of you missing, with cake.  Chocolate cake, mind you, which is kind of the best.  But when you fit the cake into your missing piece, the crumbs don't match up to fully fit into your pie.  So you get that nagging feeling again that not all is right with the world.  But the nagging feeling is now an itch that you can't quite scratch.  You, as the pie, just want to be a whole blueberry pie.  Is that so hard to ask?  So you do this.

You try to make a whole other piece of blueberry pie, a better pie if you do say so yourself.  But you know, and your mind knows, and your heart knows, and your big toe knows, that you can't just make a whole other pie when that old pie with the missing piece is sitting right there, watching you, judging you, needing you.

So you sit at the kitchen table, with the light shining on you like a halo, and you choose, I mean, you have to choose, right?  Life is all about choices!  You have the whole pie, and the one with the piece missing.  You want the whole piece of pie, because that's fucking happiness, and the other is fucking misery.  You want to be happy right?  Right?  RIGHT?  Or do you want the missing piece, and feel relatively whole every once in a while, but utterly broken?   What do you want?  And you ponder, because what you want is usually dictated to you, and you've never actually stopped to think about what you want?  Did you ask to be a blueberry pie? 

So I, as the maker of the blueberry pie, make my choice.  I am neither whole, or broken, I am on the verge of completion.  I make my own choices.  My depression is my own, and I control it.  I will be whole, and I will be broken, and I have to live with it, I have to be okay with it.  I have to be okay with it.