Grand Funk....Not the Railroad....

 

Depression is rage spread thin.  ---  George Santayana

 

In the films, actresses like Garbo made melancholy and depression seem so attractive. Even glamorous.

Well, baby, that's in the movies.

It's uncomfortable to discuss, but to try to silence it and confine it only seems to give it strength. For me, anyway.

To voice it, though, seems to lift the handle on its dark cage and releases it out into the light so you can see it, so you can face it.

If you ever suffer from bouts of—yes, say it—depression, you may sometimes feel the same way. Many of these feelings are continuous for some. But even those occasional times are potent enough to knock me to my knees.

For me, some of it is like...

Everyone hates me. Everyone is out to get me.

Every bad thing that happens is my fault. Somehow---even though it has nothing to do with me or is a million miles across the globe—it’s still my fault.

I cry.

Every nasty word spoken on the social networks, in groups, all over the world, is directed at me. A perpetual condemning finger is pointed in my face.

I cry a little more.

My writing sucks. I might receive a million fabulous comments on my book and I smile. But let even one mockery, one snarky comment appear and I plunge into fits of giant insecurity about my talent.

I cry even more.

The world plays favorites and I'm the oddball left out of life's game of Red Rover, Red Rover. Nobody likes me. Nobody wants me on their team. I'm nobody's favorite.

Tune up for more tears.

I don't fit in anywhere. Being a square peg in a round hole, for some, is just wonderful individuality. For me, it's glaring, humiliating case of not being cool. I simply don't belong.

Bawl fest.

Everyone's talking about me behind my back.

Major waterworks.

Every other writer's work is better than mine. If I can't be like them, write what they write, I'm a failure. It's no matter that I have my own individual talent. I'm not happy with that. No, I want to be the other authors.

Cry me a river.

I want to be alone, very alone, yet the alone-ness is unbearable because it leaves only me in room with that the entity called depression.

I crave support and a kind word but, like a vampire to a cross, I cringe and hiss when it's offered. Hell, I even bite the friendly hand sometimes.

 

As an author, I can't get recognized fast enough. Not only am I angry at myself for this, I'm angry at those who are recognized already.

I sometimes alienate those who want to help. Not even they’re able to be the comforting rocks they usually are. I'm too angry to want a Rock of Gibraltar. I want to flounder and lick my wounds. I want to feel sorry for myself, it seems the only sensible thing at the moment. See? Just another side effect—the sincere feeling that I deserve to flounder and sink.

It reminds me of swimming lessons years ago. Upon my sinking in the huge, Olympic size pool, the instructor jumped in to save me. Panicking, I clawed at his head to push myself above water and nearly drowned him. I needed to be rescued but I resisted it.

This unsettled state causes resentment toward things where no resentment should be.

And here is the thing. I'm making light of the effects of depression...maybe trying to make some humor. Because, believe me, its reach is much deeper, much harder to explain, much, much harder to grasp. And much stronger.  

I look in the mirror and imagine myself a prima donna. Me, me, me. To most, I'm willing to bet, it appears that I have a severe case of narcissism. Yet, deep in my heart, I know the selfishness is merely a stubborn clinging—a realization that I really, really do not want to sink. And I'm screaming, shouting, hating, crying, loving, fearing, clawing so someone will notice that I am adrift. I'd probably, as usual, deny the helping hand. Because, you know, as Garbo would say, I want to be left alone.

Maybe I do need to be left alone. But I don't want to be left alone. Not completely. Not always.

And, yes, solitude is a beautiful thing and often a necessary thing. Yes, sometimes that dark cage is a sanctuary. A safe refuge. A beautiful, healing place. I cherish this escape, this private mental hideout from bouts of depression.

I just leave the latch open.