I start to think there really is no cure for depression, that happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I'll have to fight for as long as I live. I wonder if it's worth it ~ Elizabeth Wurtzel (b. 7/31/1967) an American writer and journalist, known for her best-selling memoir Prozac Nation which chronicles her battle with depression while a college undergraduate and how she was eventually rescued by Prozac after a history of therapy and multiple suicide attempts.
One day the random question feature of Blogger told me, "the children are waiting!". Then Blogger asked me to "please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig". I decided to take Blogger up on it's suggestion, composing a narrative that I posted to my other blog (Pensive Perquinn's Pre-posthumous Ponderings) on 7/27/2010. I don't think anyone ever read it, so I've decided to re-post it here and see if it gets any comments this time around...
The bald frog did not know that all frogs were bald, and so, to cover his embarrassment, he wore a wig. The other frogs laughed at the wig-wearing frog, causing him even greater embarrassment than being bald did. Even so, he decided to continue wearing the wig, because his head was cold, and he didn't have a hat. Frogs have no money, so a trip to the hat store was out of the question. The wig-wearing frog cried himself to sleep every night, cursing his baldness and lack of a hat. Why me? he often wondered, sometimes thinking that he should just end it all.
One day, after a particularly nasty group of young punk frogs surrounded him and jeered him relentlessly, he decided to do just that. He considered leaving a note for anyone who might find his lifeless body to read, but realized that, most likely nobody would be interested in "why", but that they would, if they cared in the least, probably be glad that the world was minus one loser. The next thing to consider was how to do it. That is, how would he put an end to his miserable existence? The wig wearing frog considered hopping onto the nearest freeway and allowing a fast moving vehicle to squish him flat, but decided that was far to horrific to even think about.
Guts squirted everywhere, and vile flies landing, and pooping on his pancaked road kill corpse was a vision that haunted him for several days. He couldn't come up with another method to off himself; he couldn't even think seriously about it. Because so much of his time was taken up with thoughts about how awful being road kill would be, or how awful the moment just prior to becoming road kill might be. Avoiding other frogs and their taunts regarding his wig was also time consuming.
A visit to the location where the most delicious flying insects were meant the possibility of an encounter with another frog. And so he just lay in bed and did nothing all day. Not going out meant not encountering any other frogs who might make fun of his bald head or wig. The wig-wearing frog was more miserable than he had ever been in his life. He didn't have the nerve to seek the sweet relief he craved, although he was completely convinced that there was no other answer. Every day he grew continually weaker, due to a lack of food and exercise to keep his muscles from wasting away. He wasn't even sure he wanted to eat any more of those insects, realizing now that eating them whole meant that he was also eating their feces.
This was an idea that entered his head when he first imagined the nasty bugs defecating on his flattened carcass, and decided then and there he would never consume another. After that decision it did not take long before the wig-wearing frog was so weak from hunger that he could no longer rise from his bed. The end is near now, the wig-wearing frog reflected one evening. He had, a long time ago, had some "friends" over for a visit, but that ended when the so-called friends criticized his (then) newly found wig. It was a casual get-together during which he had expected them all to be impressed with his now covered head. Instead they laughed, at first thinking he was pranking them. When they realized he was not, they laughed and called him names.
Looking back now, that was when the trouble began. If he could go back and do it all over, he would never have picked the wig out of the muck where he found it. But, as much as he hated the wig, he hated his bald head more. The wig-wearing frog drifted off, dreaming of the life that might have been if only he had found a stylish hat instead of the ugly smelly wig.