I could write endless pages on my bouts with depression. I don’t. I won’t.
When I’m struggling through one I’m too far ‘in’ to write well. It’s too much mad ravings, too random and too already better done by Poe, Blake and others of raving eloquence I can’t begin to approach.
But it seems to me that writing about depression (here, in this journal) must be done while I’m in it.
Anything else seems cowardly.
So, okay. This really sucks.
Tools like therapy and logic and reason help to lessen the effect. Sometimes. Some medications have made it go away for months or even years. But they close doors in my brain I’d really prefer to leave open. Self-medication helps sometimes, but I’m told it’s dangerous. (I believe it.) Alcohol has never helped and in fact has made me feel much worse. Pot can help, sometimes, but is unpredictable and imprecise. I believe a lot of research should be done here. I realize this is not a popular opinion. After all, we can’t have people getting help from something that grows freely all over the planet…
I know, I’m a dreamer. But...
An unexpected hug from a three-year-old can work temporary wonders, or an encouraging word from the spouse or a note from a friend. Those are good.
Even still, the bad days are…bad.
I’ve learned that I can still work within limits. I can make toys. I can draw.
I feel as though I’m made of lead. My face doesn’t feel familiar.
A bird perches on the windowsill. The bird makes me want to cry.
I imagine throwing a rock at it.
Today I don’t like my studio, or my reflection and I won’t talk on the phone.
But I can answer email and make a toy here at the table in a room that smells of coffee and toast.
The studio is not a place for the faint-hearted, even on the best of days.
The temperature is 105 F outside. The sun is an evil hammer. Rain would feel better. I hate this desert today.
I can hear Orion playing in the next room. He is Samurai Jack. This helps more than coffee.
Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I might not wake up feeling like someone who is hopeless, someone who is not me. Or I might try making another toy.