My life! What has it become? How can one have enthusiasm when they’re depressed? Enthusiastically depressed? Oxymoron much? But that’s just it; I can’t change my underlying temperament just because I’ve lost the will to live. Yes! I’ve given up! I’ve tried for so long, but I keep stubbing my toes on the obstacles.

I’ve tried climbing my broken ladder, but, honestly, it’s hard when every other rung is missing, and, well, I’m afraid of heights. I have so many fears, you know! Yes, they’re quite stifling. I find it’s best to stay in one spot, lest something were to happen if I were to move, but then who is to say this spot is safe? I could be a bull’s-eye target. Who is watching? I can’t live like this, though; it’s paralyzing. Can you imagine being enthusiastically emotionally paralyzed?

It’s not easy. I was looking for a reset button. Is it somewhere in my subconscious, or is there an actual button, yet to be discovered? What if it’s on my roof? What if it’s buried in the backyard? I’ve done all the things one is supposed to do when depressed. I’ve watched videos and read books about subconscious blocks. But when I meditate, I only see darkness in a frame of bright colors. The darkness is stuck between the colorful frame. Shitty, right?

If it isn’t obvious, the darkness is the depression trapped within the colorful enthusiasm. You might be asking yourself now, can’t the colorful frame quash out the darkness? It seems so easy, but alas, it hasn’t worked for me. I’ve tried journaling, and my journal loves the superlatives. It doesn’t matter what I do, the darkness pervades. I’m going to sit here now and plan the most stupendous, outrageous self-inflicted killing; it will be grand—my biggest act yet—and yet, the final act.

Suddenly, the room spins, and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and an angular nose shadowing a thin mustache appears. This man is wearing a scarf that says, “Deviling is my day job.” This is quite exciting; I’ve never seen such a sight. His short hair is waving from the breeze left over from the room spin.

“Who are you?” I ask with delight. Maybe my prayers have been answered.

“Hi there, I am Tom.”

“Hi, Tom,” I say as I sit on the edge of my sofa.

“There’s been a mixup here,” he says, then mutters to himself, “this can’t keep happening, I’m going to have to talk to Dom about this.”

“A mixup?” I say with zeal.

“Is your name Dixie of 123 Any Street?” he asks. He cocks his head to one side and looks at his palm; he has handwritten notes on it.

“No, I’m Trixie of 123 Any Place,” I say, emphasizing the word place.

“Oh yes, that’s what I was afraid of. It seems there’s been a mixup. Dom really needs to improve his handwriting. We’ve been controlling the wrong person. I don’t have a Trixie of 123 Any Place on my list. This was definitely for Dixie of 123 Any Street. Sorry for the mixup.” And Tom snaps his fingers and disappears.

I look around and see the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the internal joy that will not relent is beaming within me.