Hope?

So I missed a day, sue me. I'm still writing a hell of a lot more than I traditionally have, even if I missed my "every day" mark.

I can haz awesome new therapist! Not only do I feel better simply having some forward movement in my life, but I'm so impressed by my counselor. She's very insightful, incisive, and she really seems to understand me when I'm trying to put very complex feelings into words. Those are the most important things, but for some reason a couple of relatively minor incidents were what really shored up my estimation of her: I mentioned something about feeling lost in my head, which seems at times to be hopelessly labyrinthine including the occasional minotaur. She asked if I knew who Ariadne was (I didn't, though I knew the story), and told me that she was who helped Theseus escape the labyrinth by providing him with the string he used to find his way out - I asked if that was her, in this metaphor :) We talked more along those lines, but I was super impressed by her being able to reference Greek mythology off-the-cuff. Then later on when I was trying to explain a certain feeling, I wanted to reference an early Sandman story; I asked her if she was familiar with those graphic novels, and I was so happy when she said she was a fan. I realize that these are comparatively unimportant in terms of whether or not she's a good therapist, but it made me feel much more understood. Plus I love the fact that she's familiar with such eclectic subjects.

Oh, and I was incredibly impressed by Regina Spektor. I was totally converted to a fan - she is extremely talented, intelligent, and I love her phrasing and diction. She reminds me a bit of a young Tori Amos, and a bit of Kate Bush. Both of those are big compliments.

ow ow ow

One of my avatars is a detail from a painting by Van Gogh, called "On the Threshold of Eternity", and it is an extraordinarily effective depiction of extreme depression.



He didn't make it out of that, and never really stood a chance. I have to remember and be continually grateful for the fact that I live in one of the very first generations that do stand a chance to make it out alive.

It's so hard when it hurts, but when it doesn't, honestly, I feel like I'm kind of blessed to have been through what I have. One of my closest friends once got a fortune cookie that said something like 'the deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more capacity you have for joy'. It's something I've seen come up in different ways again and again, but it's so hard to hold on to when you're hurting. I think the most moving way I've ever heard that message was in a song written by another genius who didn't make it out of his depression, Ian Curtis.

The Joy Division song "Isolation" is all about feeling ashamed, lost, and utterly alone; about how depression disconnects you from the ones you love, and how futile your best efforts are to make things better. But at the end of the song is this amazing couple of lines that sum up for me the strange blessing that true depression and misery can bring:

But if you could just see the beauty, these things I could never describe
This is my one consolation
This is my one lucky prize

I have to learn from everything I go through, and I have to fight to take care of myself in all the ways I have available to me; not only for my own sake, but because I owe it to the memory of the unfathomable scores of men and women who died either because they were born too early, or because they weren't able to get the help they needed. Both those who were or are famous, like Vincent van Gogh, Ian Curtis, Mark Rothko, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemingway, Anne Sexton; and those whose lives touched fewer, but no less importantly, like my cousin Patrick, and my friend Sean. I owe it to all of them.

It's so hard when I feel like I do, but I try to think about what I would do (and have done) to help people I care about who were in danger of hurting themselves. I'm so non-judgmental, so understanding, and so willing to move mountains to help; surely I deserve at least a portion of that for myself.

Depression

I'm so FUCKING tired of dealing with this constant force pushing me down.  I can rally, I can think positively, I can take advantage of proffered assistance, of medications, of friends and family and deeply held philosophical beliefs; but
IT
IS
CONSTANT.

It never stops pushing, it never stops grinding; it never, ever stops.  I'm stumbling through my life with a inky black planet upon my back, like Atlas carrying Hell upon his shoulders.  It sullies everything I say and do, every happiness and joy I have, every friendship and every love I find.  It drips molten tar on my naked skin, making my wounds so filthy and sticky that even the people who love me the most can't stand to touch me.  I don't blame them at all.

I'm so tired.  I'm so tired of the bruises and the burns, of all of the hurts that never heal.  I'm tired of the constant struggle against a foe that has never once flagged in almost two decades of battle.  I just want to rest, but resting from this battle is a permanent condition, and I'm not ready for that; though it has its appeal.

There isn't even a goal towards which I can work.  The fuzzy idea of a life without this fight is and idea too abstract for me to grasp, much less work towards.  At least Sisyphus could see his objective, and knew what would end his torment.

So I wait.  I pretend I have hope.  I pretend I'm making progress towards some undefined "wellness".  I do whatever I can to keep breathing.

Maybe something will happen.