A foxhole, or fighthing hole as Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children call them, is a type of defensive fighting construct used by soldiers who are engaged in ground combat. They allow a soldier to fight and avoid enemy fire, tank treds and other dangers at the same time.
It’s also the term I use for the depression that’s been with me since I was a teenager. Whenever it returns, I say I’m down in the hole.
It’s an unpleasant place to be, but effective as I hide from the “shrapnel” above, like self-doubt and the conviction that nothing I do has any value, from work to parenting to frying an egg. I can usually climb out within a day, but sometimes I stay in the hole for a week or so.
Sometimes I avoid the hole for weeks or months. Those times are great. But the potential is always there. Like when someone burns microwave popcorn. Even after the mess has been cleaned up, you can still smell it.
I know there are people who feel confident and happy the majority of the time, and I honeslty don’t know what that’s like. Nice, I imagine. Anyway, forgive me while I’m in the hole. I’ll climb back out as soon as I can.