Getting The Smack Down

P: What's up?
M: I'm deeply funkified. Down and dirty depressed. Way below the water line, emotionally speaking.
P: Why?
M:Getting slapped in the face the last couple of months. Large rejection. Insult. One was a killer. I let hope fly and watched hope die.
P: You can't give up.
M: I'm not giving up.
P: Forgive me for saying it, but your body language and tone of voice suggest surrender.
M: Pay close attention. I'm only going to explain this to you once. Where my head is at right now is not a choice. It's more like a fever, it comes on and I can't control it and I can't just shake it off even though some people think its that easy.
P: You know a lot of people are a lot worse off than you are.
M: Yeah.
P: Don't you feel selfish?
M: Apparently you were not paying close attention.
P: How do you get through the day?
M: Barely. The drive is to avoid humans at all costs, no conversation, but that's impossible. So every word that comes out of my mouth is torture. It is a huge effort to respond to anything anybody says. Leaving the house requires maximum effort.
P: This sounds like more than a superficial reality.
M: Now you are catching on. The roots run deep. Getting the smack down while desperately trying to change connects to a deep well of pain, an infinite well that cripples. I just have to ride it out.
P: How do you know that you can ride it out?
M: It's a strange thing. I have been here before. I always get through it. No thoughts of giving up. Apparently there is some diseased hope, some warped drive in me that exists independent of my reality.
P: Can you give me more on that?
M: It's all about glimpsing the soul. I know the guy who lives inside of me. I see him from time to time. More importantly, I feel him from time to time. I know what he can do. I am aware of his talent. His intelligence. I respect him. I like him.
P: Why don't we see more of him?
M: That's something I will never understand. At least have never understood. I hope to understand it. But every time he surfaces it is only for a moment, figuratively speaking. It can be an hour, it can be three days, but relatively it is only for a moment. And just as I get comfortable with him and begin to believe he is here to stay, he slips away. It's like watching the hand of a drowning man slip beneath the surface. But he never drowns. Not yet, anyway.
P: What would happen if he drowned?
M: I can't think about that.
P: Rumor has it you have some fun coming up. An escape of sorts. That should provide some relief.
M: I am indifferent to that. I might fake my way through it with a manufactured smile and over aggressive laugh, I might actually have fun, it might even snap me out of the Dr. Funkenstein role. No way to know.
P: My guess, and it is only a guess because the human mind is impossible to investigate accurately, but my guess is that if you could reach out and grab that guy's hand, pull him up and out of the water, become one with him, black funk would disappear.
M: If I could do that, the first thing I would do would be to crush him in a bear hug, kiss him on the cheek and say Welcome Home. Then I would bask in the glory of being whole. I am guessing that's what happiness feels like. Then we would walk off together and take on the world the way I know I can. I hope there is time for that.
P: Been revealing talking to you. I enjoyed it. You are open and honest about painful topics.
M: At least you listen. Most people don't.
P: So what are you going to do now?
M: It is impossible for me to answer that question.