Dear Internet 4: I Like Dancing with the Skeletons

Dear Internet,

It has occurred to me that I have no idea what this blog is about. The through-line seems to be suicide, namely my struggle with the doc about it, but that’s kinda dark, a little brooding, yeah? I know people’s attention span these days is about the same as a cocker spaniel (yeah, and get off my lawn too, dagnabbit), so I’m sure people have even less stamina for something so depressing. Bright lights, loud colors, smiles, smiles everywhere—oh no, don’t look in that closet, that’s a good boy, come bathe in the neon of life! So it goes. “Danger, keep out”, says the sign on the closet door, “manic depressive skeletons inside.” 

But I kind of like those skeletons. They’ll stay in that closet for as long as it takes for you to notice them, to acknowledge their existence, to come to terms that they are a part of you. They can wait; they don’t molder. You got a counter on you, a timer from when you’re born. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, counting down from birth to death. But the moment something traumatic happens to you, or to someone even remotely close to you, or if you do something traumatic to someone else, you get handed an all-new counter. And this one gets tacked up on that closet door so you can’t not see it. It counts down to one of two eventualities: The first one, the skeletons wait you out, i.e., you die. You can’t take it anymore, and the very existence of those skeletons kills you. The second one, you let the skeletons out. Out into the neon and smiles, and as soon as you do, all those smiles dim. They don’t go away, but they aren’t as fake as they once were. You let out the skeletons, put on some smooth jazz music and jive away. Play a little leap frog with them, maybe. The colors quiet down, the lights soften up a bit. You make friends with the skeletons, name them Reagan, Gorf, Palmer, Marie, and the timer stops. Or at least until you engender new skeletons in your closet.   

So I guess I’m gonna figure out what this blog is all about, for real. But be forewarned, I like dancing with the skeletons.