There are hot days when the city’s awash in humidity and moods flare as hot as the temperatures. Then there are hot days when there’s a salty ocean breeze wafting through, just enough to take the edge off the day, and silence seems to resonate as the world yields to the lazy comforts that makes things like lemonade into one of the revered blessings of just such a day.

This is the latter kind of day.

Last night might’ve been an unbearably hot night had it not been for the soft cool breeze that cut through the humidity of the earlier day.

As those who’ve read me for a while know, I confessed to my bad-ass depression that felled me last year and I chronicled it for some time. I have always done battle with depression over the years. It’s just part of who I am. I’m too hip to the world and too constant a thinker to be able to just blissly glide through life. I let things mean more than I should, plague me more than they ought to. I’ve always been that way. The trouble is, being that way has also yielded to me some incredible life experiences. By allowing yourself to believe that every day can be significant you can bring an importance to experiences that you might otherwise have failed to realize the import of.

I’d like to believe that happiness is this easily attainable thing, but the truth of the matter is, making everything look as easy as happiness does happens to take a whole lot of work, and some of us can spend a lifetime figuring out how it all plays together. I don’t think I’m that kind of person, but every now and then I feel like I’ll never figure it out.

I’m just now coming out the other side of an incredibly stressful, demanding couple of months of work. I know I’ve handled it well and it has not soured my taste for my job in the least, but I know I’m feeling like I’ve got some battle scars.

It’s only recently, too, that money has come together for me. I’m suddenly out of the woods and able to do a little better than just getting by. The reason why I bring this up is, because money was tight, I began rationing my anti-depressants. I took less than I should have, and I took it less frequently. My medical plan kicked in June 1st, and I had simply fallen out of the habit of taking the pills.

Next thing you know, I lost my ability to cope with stress as well as I’d like. It got to me and shook up my equilibrium. I’m terrible about taking pills on a regular basis, and I’d been in an awesome habit of taking them nightly when I started fucking with my routine.

The long and the short of it is, I’m only now starting to feel an edge start to dissipate. I’m really amazed at how quickly it turned the tables on me. I’d already decided some three months or so ago that I think I would like to continue the prescription past the one-year regimen the doctor had in mind. Why? Because I didn’t have to struggle with that side of me that always put a damper on things. It is a mild prescription and I’ve had no side effects from it, otherwise I might be thinking twice about the regimen’s end date.

It’s a strange thing, the human psyche. It’s hard to know how its comes upon its weaknesses and flaws, and in what ways we can overcome each, but it’s brilliant.

So I’m just realizing in the last couple of days that my inconsistency and avoidance with these meds is probably largely why I felt so overwhelmed by work. I am a highly capable girl in all areas of life, work included. Being overwhelmed isn’t something that should befell me.

I had a frank chat with my boss and told her that I felt I’d performed a little beneath my abilities during The End of It All, just due to anxiety, et al, and explained that I hadn’t been taking my pills regularly.

“Well, of course that’ll affect you!” she exclaimed. “If you’re on heart pills and you don’t take them, your risk of heart attack elevates. If you are on the birth control pill and you don’t take it, you get pregnant. Same deal!”

Strangely, this all sprang to mind as a result of watching Forrest Gump. I was thinking how it was odd that even such a self-admitted unsmart man like Gump could fall victim to matters of the heart.

I guess intellect has nothing to do with hurt. It’s hard to write about depression when I know I’m such a smart and capable person. I despise admitting I’ve been weak and that sadness and stress can pull my life apart six ways to Sunday. It’s frustrating as hell to know a little pink pill runs in to rescue my mental welfare and emotional stability. After all, I’m a Darwinist.

But people need to talk about this shit more, so here you go. My record goes into the mix. Done my part.