And even today, when I at least have the benefit of another location, (being in Rhinebeck), I still feel despondent. Le désespoir. For those of you who do not, have not suffered from genuine depression, there is a place here, and it just might be a defining characteristic, where all positive possibilities are dimmed out of sight and far out of reach. There are other territories of depression, the not-caring, the self-destruction, places of anger and hatred. But the darkness and nothingness parts are tough as they do not even spur one to any sort of activity.
I keep returning to the fear part of this. As I analyze myself, as best as I can, is it fear that stops me from acting or even figuring out how to act in one's best interest? Fear of rejection, more failure, of imagination, not having any damn gumption? I really cannot get that view. All I know is down. All I feel is sad and frightened resignation. And the fear of more hassle if/as my situation deteriorates.
When you are this far "in country," anhedonia runs in the blood. Anhedonia sounds kind of fun, like a made up Marx Brothers country. Not so, my friends, not so. Nothing does, nothing pleases, nothing interests. One wonders, one marvels at others soldiering on. Even more so, at those being happy, energerized, comfortable.
I have never been one to prioritize stability and comfort, and even now, as I yearn for more of it, I know that those things, too, are illusory and often not as stable or comfortable as my current projections would have them. But still, right now, nothing seems as sweet as the knowledge that I had enough money and reasonable things to do to continue to generate it. And that, too, is another country, the country of more comfort, more stability, more ease.
K and I, as well, as other friends, speak often of fairy tales. What are the deep stories and myths that shaped your life? I think we internalize stories whether or not we realize it. I am stuck somewhere in Sleeping Beauty, playing the parts of the princess and the fairy godmothers. And the part I should be embodying, psychologically, is the prince, no?
Did Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty suffer existential, psychological incarceration? Was there dreaming or yearning or any sensation during the inactivity? Or was it all the physical limitation while their spirits and minds continued to soar and sing? Where are the fairy tales, the flights of imagination and archetype, that crystalize some of these states and these feelings, the down countries of which I have been speaking?
This might be somewhat incoherent. However, incoherence, an inability to understand and therefore perhaps change, is one of the frustrating, maddening, frightening aspects of deep depression. No foothold for a future. No light on the path.
Monday, March 13 ...
Now back in Brookly. And while I am not singing around the house, nor are any birds or fairy godmothers helping me with my chores, I can see some light if not the path.
|Apropos of nothing.|