The feeling of complete aloneness. It is so over bearing and crippling. I have just passed a manic phase and seem to be wandering into the depressive phase. It is most interesting to document this disease. This depression is a complete feeling of isolation and misunderstanding. Suicide? Nope.
Just the feeling of absent and quiet. Of tolerance and pain. Of nothingness and stillness.
I read today that we manics tend to be great artists. This I find funny, however, as of late I have found one.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emilie_Autumn
This is of little importance. I am no great artist. I have no skill or defining ability. I am poor white trash with nothing to offer but a serious set of flaws and fat. I thought, I could make great on this…disease. But alas, no. Just a set of cuts on my wrist one month and a shopping spree the next.
Sometimes the thoughts of death as a release are comforting and necessary, sometimes they are crude and intolerable. I have no ability to know what I do. I can feel all the time, I am always feeling. But logic and rationality come every so often and at their own whim.
This aloneness. This horror of isolation. This multi-faced bitch in the mirror. This is me.
I can allow others to judge me and I pray that they do. As their perception of me passes fancy and creates a hole around me, they are validated that they are not flawed, I am validated that I am.
Dead things walk the edges of my mind as I wander through this misty place. Once my friend and companion, my mind is now unexplored and unforgiving. For lack of credit card and sun my mind has once again resorted to turning grey as the sky does this October. Now the excitement leaves and the silence sets in. Sweet, deadly silence.
Now as the season turns. I am alone. For the manic may come and go as it pleases, but only on a ticket. This is now the season of my depression. The aloneness coils around me like a blanket from hell.
I am here to greet her, my old friend. I feel safe in the dead of her loving embrace.
What a grace had the Internet and global chat existed during my father’s particular turn in hell. How he would have “blanketed” himself in another’s description of the season’s power over his daily behavior.
But it was not, and every year when the clock backed up and the hours of dark increased her shadows on human activity, my father retreated, crippled by inertia. All his annual sick leave was consumed in a single winter’s snow. It took powerfully consequential chemicals to just soften this solstice fall.
His three children watched in horror and silenced humiliation: it was not until decades of research proved the “monster not the man” that my father received any real compassion over his suffering and its emanation.
How I loved him and his story. How I wish I could tell him that this post was composed by his granddaughter.
The rub, indeed.