So I’m depressed, and this is not new, or surprising. I was due.
I’m angry too, though. I’m angry because it wouldn’t be that bad, really, if I just had space for it. I know how to relax into depression. I know how to prioritize family and self and let the other stuff fall away for a time.
But I don’t have space. I should by now, but I don’t.
Imagine you’re swinging, and you’re high and weightless on the upswing, and then there’s the downswing, and that’s OK, because it’s rhythm and rhythm is life. But then you discover someone has moved a wall in behind you while you were in the air. And smack, you’re on the ground.
I’ve worked so hard to give my life flexibility. And yet it still can’t bend inwards long enough to permit me a period of drawing-in. What I have is still too precarious. To much depends on uninterrupted attention.
And so depression becomes panic, becomes breakdown. Or something right on the brink of it, held back with gritted teeth and harnessed anger. At least the anger is good for something.
[As always, writing because it really does help, and because it would be harmful to project the false impression that constant output comes without cost.]