Don't you like to pretend to be someone else? I do, too. A form of escapism, perhaps? A way vitality has of surviving, trying to creep through the cracks of damage and proclaim its existence? An internal fighter trying to stake its spot in the eventuality of progress? My most recent attempt at evading personal reality involved giving the name Laura at Starbucks. Unfortunately, I happened to try the lone shop in NY with a cashier committed enough to compare my given name with the plastic name on my credit card, so that when my drink was called I was forced to claim my name and own my reality. No chance of escapism even in a simple ruse. . . I should have said Fabio.

In the deep part, the tender spot, a small question keeps sounding: am I depressed?

Can I handle the answer? I look honestly at the evidence- the crying, the unhappiness, the insatiable, unnameable need. The conflicting desire to be held always and to be alone with my shame.

No, I am not depressed. At least not clinically. I am not under the thumb of the old regime. Though in some ways this is a kind of depression, a pain born out of the separation of me with my true self, I am not in need of chemical supplements or extra therapy. Well, actually I wouldn't mind a second session per week. . .

But my real point is to claim for myself the truth that there is a cause in this current amorphous ennui. There is a point to it, there is a path out of it, and it does not lie in the direction of a comparably simple label of depression. I am not myself these days and I can not hide it, even when I desperately want to. So much energy it would take to block up the obvious space in my eyes. To force a genuine smile takes so much effort when one really would prefer to cry.

What is so wrong with crying, anyways? It's embarrassing, a whiny voice declares. It's messy, the practical voice adds. But I need it, I counter. And I do.

What space could possibly be enough for my sadness? How did so much sadness gather? Whenever I begin to let it be free I become terrified that I will spew tears and sadness into the stratosphere without end, and so I try my hardest to contain the sadness, judge how much is appropriate to release, and adhere to those arbitrary levels.

Sometimes I just let go, and though it feels good to do so, there is always a critical voice inside, fearing that such shows are too much. Inevitably I feel embarrassed at owning such sadness. Where does the embarrassment come from? Constantly that word picks away at the best parts of myself. Slowly it devours my new resolves and crushes my newer senses of possibility and hope.

I wish I had a bit more hope.