It’s back. Churchill’s ‘black dog’. After a hypomanic whirlwind of energy and insomnia, depression has, once again, settled into my bones. It was inevitable.
An exquisite sadness coats me. A mournful heartache. It saturates. It’s hopeless and it sinks into my core. A physical chunk of pain that knots my stomach and chokes my throat. I don’t want to talk. I have no desire to smile. I entertain no appetite. I traipse around, no spring in my step. Speech is slow and monotoned. A dullness blights my eyes. My head is too heavy and rests in my hand. Decisions are impossible. Nothing is worthwhile and I am too defeated to even cry. The pace of life grinds down and falls into cold, damp shadow.
A constant inner pain that mocks my sanity, my resolve.
And in the sanctum of my diseased mind I rail against the gods and curse my DNA. This obscene fate that has befallen me. A co-worker tells of a young child, riddled with cancer, a brain tumour, painfully clinging to life. Horrendous guilt rises in my throat like bile. I disgust myself. At days end, I skulk home and creep into bed. Ashamed. Despairing. Wretched.
I know the only cure, the only relief from this torment is death. But, right now, I don’t want that option. Alternatively, a nice little round of blitzing shock treatment would fry the daylights out of my mind. But I don’t want that option either.
So I do what I have to do. I try to keep going. One foot in front of the other. Its neither pretty nor dignified. But the bottom line is, I don’t have the luxury of giving up. I am my only life raft. That, and I’m just plain stubborn.
So I drag myself kicking and screaming through life. Always in search of my silver lining, or a tiny piece of beauty to inspire. To make it all worthwhile. To take me into tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that.
