Dealing with depression, on a personal level, is something that I�m not sure I�ve ever had to fully deal with. Maybe I just wasn�t aware that that was what I was doing in the past, but this time it�s very, very real.

I�m very analytical. I look at everything from as many angles as I can think of before I come up with a verdict. This is why I�m so good at my job. People tell me what they are in need of, and I poke, prod, and probe until I�m sure I know exactly what it is that they are looking for. Then I give them what they need.

The problem with depression is the ambition/will/life sucking qualities that it has, and this is new to me. I don�t even seem to have the energy, nay, the will to analyze what it is going on in my head.

Talking to the Girl, and having her dissect a good part of it certainly helped. She brought to my attention things, simple things, like the shitty weather Denver-metro has been having for 4 days. Late night hockey games that I have such little energy for. Both of us having things to do, and therefore spending less quality time with each other.

I understand that these things are all factors in what I would normally call a �funk.� But, this is beyond that, and is unfamiliar territory for me.

The Girl has now read all of Dusty�s entries, and even left a comment on the one about depression. I knew it hit her in a deep way, because she was quoting it tonight while we were talking.

I went back and read it again and it now speaks to me on a whole different level.

But, the problem remains. No matter who knows how you feel. No matter how many people have gone through it before you. No matter how many people have gone through it to a much more severe degree and much more often than you.

It still fucking sucks.

Me and The Girl were going to head up to Greeley tonight to spend some time with her brother, my friend, Shithead and his family. He will never acknowledge it in a kazillion fucking years, but he needs us. He needs those he loves close to him because his marriage sucks and he doesn�t know he�s unhappy, even though he is. He�s dug his own hole and we can�t help that, we can only be there for him. And his wonderful, wonderful kids.

And I�m not there for them, or him.

I could�ve sucked it up, pulled up the bootstraps and went up there. But, I just don�t have it right now. I would have gone, had the Girl not been able to go, and, as much as it hurt me to have her leave me, I told her to go and be there for him as I couldn�t.

When we were kids (my brother and I), our mother, while going through the divorce and the eventual custody battle she lost, would say to us on occasion, �boys, I just don�t have it today. Can you give me a little space? I�ll be okay soon. This too shall pass� and we would. We would do whatever she asked.

She�s fond of telling that story and marveling at the fact that we were always such angels when she would say that, even though he was only 12, and I was just 6. When in fact, we were just listening. She made sure we heard what she said, and we respected and loved her enough to do whatever we could for her. What else could we have possibly done? What other options were there?

I had to say that tonight.

�Honey, I just don�t have it.�

And it sucked.

This may sound like I�m a little too full of myself, a little too egotistical, but I ALWAYS have it. I�m always the guy that�s there when someone needs something. It�s just who I am. I�m the goalie you want during the playoffs. I�m the guy you want in net during a one-goal game that you must win. I'm the guy who's shoulder you cry on, when you got dumped/divorced, or lost that promotion. I am the white knight. I am the super-hero. I am Superman.

But, what happens if Superman says, �I just don�t have it.�

Who will come to the rescue?

Who will save the day?

Who will vanquish the villain and save the damsel?

What happens when there is no villain?

What happens when there is no damsel?

What happens when there is no Superman?

The vague, peripheral feeling that depression brings is amazing to me. Colors, sights, sounds, they all just seem to lose their clarity. They seem, to quote the Girl, �muted.�

I was aware earlier though, of something very real. The feel of the woman I loved in my arms. The soft, warm feel of her lips on my forehead as I cried in her arms. The very real feeling of my heart being torn as I wanted more than anything for her to stay with me, but telling her to go to her brother, because he needed her more than I did.

I became aware of a brown dog, curled up in a little Mazzyball on the couch. The warmth of her rotund belly as she rolls over on her back, giving me easier access to her tummy. The slightly musty, comforting smell of her fur when I nuzzle her and hold her tight.

The speckled gotard, Carhartt, following me blindly as I get another beer and sit down, waiting for me to be stationary so that I may only give her love. My hand on her sweet head as she sits, for hours it seems, and shares this moment in time with me, acting as if our sole purpose on this Earth is to give each other love in its simplest forms.

The cold, caramelly, bubbly sensation of a Colorado micro-brew sliding down my throat.

The cold rain, lightly landing on my head as I sit on our back porch and smoke a cigarette.

The incredible pain in my head, as I went to piss in my own backyard and smacked my noggin on the bird feeder hanging from the tree.

The feeling of my lips, pursed together in a pensive thought, tells me that I can still feel. That my face, my body, is still real and I can feel it.

These feelings, these incredibly visceral feelings aren�t always there, even if the things that inspire them are.

I am aware.

Am I through it?

Is it over?

That remains to be seen.

But... I do feel better.

This too shall pass.