Depression and sorrow have turned me into a cat. I have a constant craving for soft, warm places to lie down where no one will bother me until it’s time for my next feeding. I stare dazedly out the patio doors watching, waiting for something interesting to wander past.
Speaking of which…the other day my partner wandered past me wearing a shirt printed with the words WE ARE WHAT WE REPEATEDLY DO, and I thought with great dismay, “Oh my god! I’m nothing! I’ve been reduced to nothing!”
A deeply imbedded survival instinct urges me – absolutely INSISTS! – that I Never Stop Trying. This instinct is there for a reason. Bred in the bone. A gift, no doubt. I trust it. But depression is not a ‘normal’, healthy instinct. It’s an abberation, and error in my programming. It creates special rules for survival, like Don’t Fight. Resistance to depression deepens it, like struggling in quicksand: it will just make you sink faster.
Activity can pull me up out of a depressoin, but only at the right time. This round of depression is taller, wider, deeper and longer than any I’ve experienced in many years. It was made monolithic by several months of nerve-shattering tension and then by great loss and acute grief.
I at least have imaginings of making art. This is a significant Something. But lying down and imagineering things doesn’t LOOK like activity, and so this doing nothing (seemingly) isn’t earning me the praise and respect (though not quite scorn, either) of the people around me. Even those that love me dearly are looking askance.
They will just have to keep looking. Desire will not come at my bidding. Enthusiasm is too quick and elusive for me still.