Depression | Seduction of Melancholy
I’m going to be honest with you: I’m not always the smiling the face you see in my pictures. In fact, many days it’s such an effort being that person that it affects everything I do, right down to creating blog posts. Sometimes it’s painful allowing myself to be photographed when all I want to do is be devoured by my duvet and sleep my emptiness away. Melancholy seduces me with it’s promise of numbing sorrow.
Anyone who follows me on Twitter quite possibly has noticed the odd comment I’ve made that may seem out of character. One minute I’m all LOLs, the next I’m speaking of the dark side and the shadows that loom over me and pull me beneath the ground. The psychological feeling is exactly like being caught in sinking mud; (it happened to me one year) your entire feet are steadfast, like you’re held by your ankles. You can’t move, it’s an effort to even stay in that stationary stance, and when you do try to lift a heavy foot, your other foot is taken further in and you’re stuck battling weights insistent on absorbing you under. That panic and helplessness is the same, now. I fight just to stay above the surface. Being awake only means conscious awareness of the deep ache inside, of the knowing, or rather not knowing, how I’m going to keep myself going that day. I know I won’t.
Everybody says to have a good cry, “let it out”, “get it out of your system”. But, when you don’t really know what you’re going to cry for, what are you letting out? How do you know when it’s out of your system when it seems your whole system is just a weak, cumbersome bucket of tears and pain?
I don’t always feel like smiling and I don’t know why. Sometimes what I’m thinking and feeling changes within half an hour of laughing at something. No tweets. No emails. Nothing. Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Suddenly I’m aware of a vulnerability, I’m an open wound and I feel hollow, empty and unnoticeable. “I’m not even worth a scuffed one penny kicked to the side of the road” – a line from a poem I wrote when I was 16 which still comes back to me with it’s relevance now.
I struggle to feel worthy, period. Existing embarrasses me. How can a person this ugly, this rotten, this mental, not be ashamed of being a human?
The laptop gets shut down. The camera photos deleted out of disgust. No blog post today.
The change may happen an hour or two later or next day, I never know. Then I’m back tweeting LOLs and cheeky exchanges with fellow bloggers who I’m again with shared commonality. I’m confident, brash and sharing photos from shoots – “look how amazing these shots are!” Like I’m another person, the desperate cries are only a shadow behind me.
The truth is, I don’t know who I am, who that shadow is, but it seems to be a part of me, for now, forever? I’ll regret telling you this when I’m back to the familiar ‘normal’ self but for those who witness the different me, I don’t want to hide. I appear to crave melancholy and be hidden, but I’m trying to stay away from the lure of the invisibility blanket and it’s unconscious temptation. Don’t be afraid to say hi, you might save me from a twitter silence.