There Goes My Hero

I've been ridden with bouts of anxiety and depression for the last few months. They come. They go. Intense feelings of happy and sad that are triggered by the slightest of stimuli.

That's right. Things aren't so happy in Spartacus-land. It's been this way for quite some time.

I won't go into the whys and hows of what brings me up and slams me down. Let's just say that it's my fault. I dug myself into this hole and all my attempts to climb have been as futile as impeaching George Bush. It's like being tied fast to a chair and forced to watch an endless loop of Danity Kane videos.

I don't normally write about these things...check that...I don't normally write about these things here. I've kept a personal journal for the last 23 years, which is where I do most of my unfiltered brain dumping.

In this medium, I try to tell personal stories that I hope have some relevance with my handful of readers. While I get worked up about issue and events and allow my emotions to seep through my fingertips out to the blogosphere, I am not comfortable with simply revealing my moods in public forums for the whole world to read. I have plenty of friends who will attest to my offline rants and whines, but that's about as far as I like take it.

Yet, here I am, writing about being depressed.

This story comes with a twist. No...check that...more like a yank at my collar.

As I sat at the dining room table Wednesday night after dinner, staring blankly at newspaper, processing all manner of irrational thought, Rick stopped by to talk. He had come up from the basement a few moments after the screaming match between me and Skippy subsided. She had reached the breaking point with my un-checked morbidity, and after unloading on me about how my moods affect everyone in the house, she stalked off to our bedroom.

Enter Rick.

Rick: Dad, what's wrong?

Me: I'm not feeling too well right now. Please leave me be.

Rick: Are you sick?

Me: Yeah...you can say that.

Rick: Well, you don't really look sick. You look depressed.

Me: Yeah...you're right again, Rick. That exactly what I am.

He walked over to where I was sitting and put his arms around me leaning his head on my shoulder. I drew him close to me to acknowledge the gesture. He was trying to cheer me up.

He spoke again.

Rick: Dad, I love you.

Me: I love you, too, Rick.

Rick: No, Dad. I love and I'll do anything I can to make you feel better. Just let me know. Okay?

It didn't take long for me to lose it. The tears were already welling in my eyes as the last syllables escaped his lips. A few simple words were all it took to get me crying on my son's shoulder, unleashing years angst and agony.

I must have held onto his bony, 70-pound frame for what seemed like an eternity, though it was only for a few minutes. I could feel the strength emanating from him pass into me, revealing the redemptive and healing power of his love.

I released him from my embrace, holding his chin in my hand. I leaned in, kissed his cheek and told him, "Thanks Rick. You already have done something."

I am fortunate and blessed to have such a son as Rickdiculus.

Thanks for laying one down little buddy. You will always be my champion. My hero.