Depression is more like grief. It's a crushed feeling. A grinding into dust. A shattering. A grating apart like flour forced through a sifter. A parasitic tapeworm of the soul. A weight on my chest, so heavy I can hardly breathe, producing the panic of an asthma attack, as if I am about to die.
Gratitude is never first on the scene. Like anger, it's a reaction only, more often a choice, and when consistently pursued, a habit. Like other emotions, it's a fuel. But unlike depressive states, it's not a fuel that burns me down to ashes, it's a fuel that drives me forward. It's flexible to any kind of attack, has no end, and it can roll any which way. Like a sphere, I suppose. Love is also like that. To me, gratitude in the midst of my circumstances, no matter what they are, is an expression of love toward my God; an unwritten love letter lived out.
A poem about the relentless pursuit of my Love through all my darkness and storms.
I've written a lot while in the throes of depression to give you a glimpse into my mindset while I'm in the deep, but I haven't written about mania while I'm in the midst of it yet. ...Well. This should be interesting.
N.'s artwork was beautiful. In the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Or a dark forest. Or an abandoned silo. Or even a ghost town. Otherworldly. Tragic. Magnetic. Haunting. Fascinating. Profound when pondered. ...Disturbing, as only death and neglect and long-accepted despair can be. N. was "other." Apart. And none of us dared go near him.
Strands of keratin. They slide between my fingers and I think-- Where were we, Love, when this small space at the end of the lengths were new, emerging like buds of Spring from scalp and skin?
Few things are more ripe for charity than living with mental illness. I have to rely on so many other people, and 90% of the time, it's Campbell. And he's the one with cancer! But he wants to do it. And I need to let him carry me in the dark times...even if he's crippled too.