It has been two years since I got my zipper--the scar from navel to sternum that has little dot-scars all up and down on each side. Purple-red. Shiny. Still hurts. The patch inside still hurts when I bend over, or exert, or just lie down to go to sleep, on my side.

I remember recuperating, sitting day after day, at first in a lot of pain, but then taking a pill and having the pain diminish. And trying to read, but having a hard time concentrating. And listening to Gounod's Mors et Vita once a day. And Air, and a few times the German Requiem. And Mozart, and Bach's St Matthew Passion. And starting to feel the beginnings, the entrance, into depression. That's what I take it to be, what I started to feel. I can't even describe it. Looking out the window at the trees across the way, feeling that feeling that I cannot describe. But it was horror, for one thing. Petite, but horror. Controlled, squashed, but still, that feeling. Helpless.

Now I have compassion on those who have depression, if it is a "chemical" thing that their body is doing to them. Or even if it's because of their choices. But if it's because of their choices, I can say, "Toldja." And I do believe if it's choices, there's a quick way out. Change choices; or when the choices have caused depressioning consequences, pay the consequences, but also publicly confess and decry and move on.

So you see I am compassionate. I am. I really feel for those who have a chemical thing going on that they can't help. Somebody please help them.

Dona nobis pacem.