this morning's ride in, part one

I just broke up with a girl with whom I've had an on-and-off relationship for the last 17 or so years. She's a femme fatale, the kind of girl you know will destroy you but you can't resist her. Call her Jane. I know I'm better off for being alone, but my heart still hurts. That's the best way I can think to describe it. So I have been really cranky and down this past week. Self-esteem at an all-time low. My wife thinks I'm depressed. Sometimes I start to believe it, too.

It made me wonder again: If I inherited my dad's penchant for dark-haired, dangerous women, why shouldn't I also have inherited his depression? As a kid I knew my dad to be a happy-go-lucky fellow, although you could elicit an angry and insensitive person if you, say, scratched the hood of his car. I think he still is that person, even though it's hard to tell through the stroke. I wonder what deep, dark sadness he carries inside. The pre-Prozac generation wasn't taught to embrace their depression and treat it with drugs, and he was never much of a talker anyway. Maybe that's another thing I inherited from my father: not owning my depression. Or maybe I just learned a different way to deal with it. In a weird way, I know my wretched weekends with Jane at least gave me something to look forward to: A slit of oblivion from whatever anxiety and sorrow the waking world gave me. And if you're convinced a wrecked girl is going to help you, it can be a strong placebo.

For the record, my independence day is Wednesday March 24, 2010.