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What it means to me: The Conviction of George Floyd’s Murderer
It’s roughly 2:30 pm on Tuesday, April 20, 2021. I had just got out of the shower — my first productive event of the day. This is a huge victory for me, especially after sleeping in most of the day following my birthday. My birthday is my favorite holiday of the year and yesterday, I unwrapped gift boxes of pain, loneliness, and a few birthday texts and calls from friends.
My current depression cycle, albeit longer than usual, is not as bad as it used to be when I first became aware of my pain four years ago. I’ve learned a lot about myself and what to expect and not expect of my mind and body when I’m in this state. I’m three months into this cyclical depression and I can expect zero creative output.
It has a mind and schedule of its own. Each day is unpredictable; I never know how I’m going to feel the next day and it doesn’t matter what tragedy circumvents the news outlets or if I got paid that day. My body will feel the way it wants to feel on its own time and I can’t seem to find the subscription link to its Google Calendar. I know I need help, and I’m the only person who can do the work to find said help — the irony of American living. It’s during this state of mind when it’s especially difficult to sustain my therapy sessions while simultaneously sorting through endless directories of LGBTQ-friendly or POC…
