The Bipolar Packyderm
I have just finished a few weeks of getting my father through his latest and most serious bout with depression and alcoholism. I have been quite numb. Last night, as I tried to get my youngest to sleep, I wondered how I could get back into blogging when humor seemed so far away, so irrelevant. Then I imagined an elephant sitting on me, making me unable to write. The image translated into this:
An elephant sat on my sense of humor.
With thighs full of stress, he said things were a mess
As I felt my lungs pressed out of air.
An elephant sat on my sense of humor
His ears twitched with dread and his trunk slapped his head
And he sighed and he sighed and he sighed.
I thought when he left I could giggle again.
Pick up where I was right before
But my insides were squished and oh how I wished
That he'd sat on my ego instead.
I realized that if I can sound a little like Shel Silverstein, then I am not dead yet.
sort of cross posted at Berlin Blog