I have started to wonder this recently. In recent weeks I have been so depressed that I ceased to care whether I ever got better or not. They say, and they're right, that when you're depressed you can't see anything different. Times in the past when I've been OK seem, at best, like a dream. Mostly I feel that I must have just imagined them. Rarely can I see that there is any possibility of feeling better in the future.
That's not what this is about though. I believe that I have felt good, that I have felt good relatively recently even. I also believe that today I feel very different from the way I've been over the last 10 weeks or so. The belief that I have lost is the belief that it really matters.
People say, almost to the point of cliche, that a baby's smile, a moment with the sun on their face, the ability to laugh at a joke, any one of these things makes all the suffering worthwhile. I just don't think that's true. The thing, the only thing, that makes my continued existence worthwhile is that my family and friends are not bereaved. They don't have a dead daughter, sister, friend, because I am still here. For that reason and no other am I still here, because, other than that, none of it is worthwhile.
Today I woke early and decided to make art. I have been so unable to even consider making art that this might be misconstrued as some kind of breakthrough. Making art is what I'm meant to be doing with my life after all. It's not a breakthrough in any positive sense, it's a breakdown of resistance, a defeat, and the swallowing of increased numbers of orange pills. Today I can make art, fine, but what about tomorrow? What about next week? What about in a few months? There is no way of knowing. Swallowing orange pills is no guarantee, they can push me into hypomania too.
Better isn't better because it breeds false hope. It makes me think that I can undertake a project, decide to go on holiday, promise to do something for someone, and that when the time comes I'll be able to honour my commitments. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Maybe carrying out one of those plans is the thing that will make me ill again.
Better isn't better because it breeds false hope in others, they are so relieved and optimistic and happy that I'm doing something normal. Fair enough, but when it all falls apart again it's me who has to burst their bubble. And how can I tell them that even today, when I feel better than I have for weeks, I would still much rather not be alive.
Maybe there is some positive element to not being too attached to wellness. With wellness there usually comes fear, because, to the extent that there is pattern, I know it's unlikely to last very long. It's easy to waste a lot of well time looking over your shoulder, looking for early warning signs - which we are encouraged to do, supposedly to maintain our mental health. Maybe indifference to wellness will reduce the anxiety. Today, for example, I forgot to have a bath, twice. I woke up this morning with a project in my head. It wasn't there yesterday but within an hour of waking it was fully formed. It seemed very urgent that I start it right away so I threw on clothes, grabbed the things I needed and set off for the woods. As I left the house I remembered I hadn't had my bath. No problem, I can have it this afternoon before I go to the pub. At the appointed time I duly ran my bath, but I had a few things to do which seemed important so I got on with them while the bath ran. Mercifully I remembered to turn the taps off before it overflowed. But I was still busy so I decided to finish a few things before getting in. Next thing I knew I should have left the house ten minutes ago. I still have a bath full of cold water because I had to run out of the house to meet my friends. So was I just being scatty within the realms of normality or is it an early warning sign of going high? I don't feel inclined to worry about going high when I have been so depressed up til yesterday. And I don't know how to know the answer anyway. And even if I did, and if it is an early warning sign, wtf am I supposed to do about it? Better is not better, it's just a waiting game.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Tuesday 29 September 2009
Not beginning
I have been here before, but you haven't, so welcome. You will have been at your own not-beginnings, your own versions of "here we go again", so you know where I'm coming from when I say that this is so not new. But beginnings get forced upon us from time to time and a new blog needs some kind of introduction.
I am here because I'm not drawing. It's not just that, but that's as close as I can get to true. If I was drawing or making any sort of art really, I would be over on my other blog doing show and tell. But I have nothing to show and too much to tell, so I'm here instead.
I am assuming I have readers. I don't know if I merit readers, whether there will be anything worth reading here. But the fact that I'm putting this online suggests to me that I assume readers, otherwise I'd just write it in a book, like the tens of books I've filled with writing over the years, then mostly shredded because it was never designed to be read and I didn't want it to be. If there are readers that's OK, but I'm more concerned with formalising my writing a bit, being a bit more accountable to myself because someone might be looking.
So what is this not-beginning? It is the all too familiar process of picking up the pieces. It's a cyclical process and Ive been resisting it but it always gets me in the end. You just can't keep holding out on life, at some point you have to resign yourself to living it because it hasn't stopped yet. In my experience the process necessitates pretence to the point of lying and a good measure of consensual delusion. You have to believe there is a reason, a purpose, a meaning, even though there is clearly not. You have to pretend you want to be alive, pretend there are things to live for - as opposed to reasons not to die yet. You have to do something, anything. You have to talk yourself into believing that what you have in your hands after this scavenging expedition is something worth living for.
It works for a few months, then I'm back to where I was before.
I am here because I'm not drawing. It's not just that, but that's as close as I can get to true. If I was drawing or making any sort of art really, I would be over on my other blog doing show and tell. But I have nothing to show and too much to tell, so I'm here instead.
I am assuming I have readers. I don't know if I merit readers, whether there will be anything worth reading here. But the fact that I'm putting this online suggests to me that I assume readers, otherwise I'd just write it in a book, like the tens of books I've filled with writing over the years, then mostly shredded because it was never designed to be read and I didn't want it to be. If there are readers that's OK, but I'm more concerned with formalising my writing a bit, being a bit more accountable to myself because someone might be looking.
So what is this not-beginning? It is the all too familiar process of picking up the pieces. It's a cyclical process and Ive been resisting it but it always gets me in the end. You just can't keep holding out on life, at some point you have to resign yourself to living it because it hasn't stopped yet. In my experience the process necessitates pretence to the point of lying and a good measure of consensual delusion. You have to believe there is a reason, a purpose, a meaning, even though there is clearly not. You have to pretend you want to be alive, pretend there are things to live for - as opposed to reasons not to die yet. You have to do something, anything. You have to talk yourself into believing that what you have in your hands after this scavenging expedition is something worth living for.
It works for a few months, then I'm back to where I was before.
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