It's Easter Monday.
A four day weekend where depending on your beliefs; or lack of them, regardless of your proximity to the spring equinox; or the autumn, the western world celebrates renewal, fertility, and new beginnings. Be it the Christian story of the Resurrection, the pagan celebration of spring, or the modern gluttony of chocolate; rebirth, spring, flowers, rabbits, eggs - symbols of joyous new life are everywhere. Oh the irony.
All around me people are galloping on with their lives, eating chocolate, going to church, hunting for eggs, as though they have an unlimited supply of charge-life. Maybe they do. Maybe it's only me that has a faulty 'battery'.
What IS my battery? Some ethereal font of energy that I lost my connection to? Possible, but until it's a measurable thing I'm going to struggle to believe it. An internal chemical reaction I can't ignite anymore? Isn't that what the medication is supposed to be balancing? Is it something I can fix or replace? I don't think so - I don't think a solution will be an external issue. I HAD a lovely partner, I HAD a fabulous job. Would winning the lottery solve it? I wouldn't mind finding out, but that's flippant. If I can't get out of bed, does it matter how fancy the sheets are? I don't know. And that's my problem.
Without a clear solution, I don't care. It's such a weird place to be. I spend hours watching documentaries, watching TED talks, watching lectures, listening to the opinions of healers, listening to the facts from scientists; and do you know what I've discovered?
Everyone has a different battery. A different raison d'etre. What works for one person, heck, what works for hundreds of people; won't necessarily work for me. Even If I find something that works, there's no guarantee it will work for anyone else. The fix is specific to the person. Depression is a varied and shifting thing, and the label doesn't help describe the affliction.
I learn other things too. A manglewurzle is a real thing (it's a root vegetable), kazoos and children are a match made in heaven, and in 1868 you could have caught the tube to watch the last public hanging of a criminal in London.
I'm really struggling to balance it within myself. I'm still interested in stuff, I just don't care about it. But - if I care enough to watch a documentary about how lace-making (lace-making!) resulted in an entire region's children being exempt from going to school; then why can I not find the energy to go downstairs and make a cup of tea? Is this what Depression is supposed to look like? Aren't I supposed to be staring at the wall, suffering with melancholy? Why do I have a brain that needs fodder instead? All I know is that if I can't find a documentary; about lace-makers, manglewurzles, or public hangings; I'll start re-chewing the mental cud of purpose, meaning, drive, and end up believing that the universe will be just fine without me.
All of which leaves me laying in bed, questioning my existence, while one of the world's largest celebrations of life finishes up.
I should have bought myself some chocolate.
Derri
A four day weekend where depending on your beliefs; or lack of them, regardless of your proximity to the spring equinox; or the autumn, the western world celebrates renewal, fertility, and new beginnings. Be it the Christian story of the Resurrection, the pagan celebration of spring, or the modern gluttony of chocolate; rebirth, spring, flowers, rabbits, eggs - symbols of joyous new life are everywhere. Oh the irony.
What IS my battery? Some ethereal font of energy that I lost my connection to? Possible, but until it's a measurable thing I'm going to struggle to believe it. An internal chemical reaction I can't ignite anymore? Isn't that what the medication is supposed to be balancing? Is it something I can fix or replace? I don't think so - I don't think a solution will be an external issue. I HAD a lovely partner, I HAD a fabulous job. Would winning the lottery solve it? I wouldn't mind finding out, but that's flippant. If I can't get out of bed, does it matter how fancy the sheets are? I don't know. And that's my problem.
Without a clear solution, I don't care. It's such a weird place to be. I spend hours watching documentaries, watching TED talks, watching lectures, listening to the opinions of healers, listening to the facts from scientists; and do you know what I've discovered?
Everyone has a different battery. A different raison d'etre. What works for one person, heck, what works for hundreds of people; won't necessarily work for me. Even If I find something that works, there's no guarantee it will work for anyone else. The fix is specific to the person. Depression is a varied and shifting thing, and the label doesn't help describe the affliction.
I learn other things too. A manglewurzle is a real thing (it's a root vegetable), kazoos and children are a match made in heaven, and in 1868 you could have caught the tube to watch the last public hanging of a criminal in London.
All of which leaves me laying in bed, questioning my existence, while one of the world's largest celebrations of life finishes up.
I should have bought myself some chocolate.
Derri
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