by Kelsey Marie Harris
My depression heightens around the same time every year. It’s a signal that fall is coming. My mother passed in the fall of 2014, and shits felt pretty bleak since then.
This summer’s ending has felt more weighted, what with pandemics and racism. Racism isn’t new but folks are certainly leaning into it this year.
My 11 year old is convinced the world is ending. Specifically, that it will end in fire. She doesn’t seem too concerned though, and that’s comforting.
I stopped eating meat a few months back. I’ve been learning to forage edible weeds, and training myself to have less of an appetite. Sort of like psychological doomsday prepping. That certainly sounds more intentional than the fact that I forget to eat, most days.
Either way, if the grocery stores can’t regenerate in the next wave, I’ll be prepared. “It’s purslane for dinner again, kids! Feel every piece of those Omega 3’s.”
On the bright side, I’ve got plenty of writing projects in the works right now. The press I’m editing for, Really Serious Literature, snagged our first book to publish for the reading period. The exquisite corpse I’m curating is coming along. I’ve got a new book out, “Spit (verb) In my mouth” at Vegetarian Alcoholic Press. I won a virtual poetry slam this month. I’ve got 3 zoom readings lined up for next month. I’m also collaborating on a book with a good friend.
Good thing functional depression fuels my writing. I guess that’s the functional part.
