i go to my regular checkup for my adrenal glands today and another nuance of growing older; having my hormones checked. what a wackadoodle sort of career aging is, in itself. someone has seen these posts lately, i wonder who, then i melt away from those thoughts and stop caring again. i have two bets: someone who loves me very much or someone who really hates me, or both. i won't bet on anything or anyone today.
applying makeup is a form of art that i used to rush, because in youth, i could afford to. now it must be quality products, tasteful and not too dry, not too dark. as i watch myself turning this mid-40s alien, i love myself for it. what bravery to just age and grow up without much fussing. i admire women who can do it well. it's a quiet battle, not like puberty where curves jut out suddenly, attracting opinions on various ways to flatten them. it's a slow process, middle age, of daily changes that add up to big changes. gray hair, the relaxation of once tight skin, sagging this or that, little lines here, wrinkles there, slower walking, hips that ache at night before bed. the loss of sexual desire. the thinning out of friends. the contemplation, JEEZ, the sudden realizations about one's own life.
it takes imagination and responsibility. i was reading haruki murakami and something about imagination being a responsibility grabbed at me. aging, living even, takes both -and it takes guts. it's not for the faint of heart. strength, to me, has always taken shape in the form of creativity and imagination, but during depression, like other illnesses, i just want the current pain to be over and done with. i have to literally imagine myself once happy, or future selves happier. that's literally what it takes to muddle through and trudge out of the tunnel of a depressive episode.
this very adult responsibility to stay breathing, to stay alive amidst despair, can require a huge amount of energy. that's not counting the myriad ways one must survive, much less carry responsibilities, like bills, kid, relationship, dogs, home, food, sleep, makeup, doctors, driving, reading, self care. imagine trying to always imagine one's self happy, not just existentially, but truly, a sick brain that cannot remember. a brain that thinks it has always been like this and will always be like this. that's the kind of depression i have. it strikes writers, artists, musicians, mailmen, housewives, book lovers, people who aren't very smart, kids, the elderly... it's not really a type of brain as much as it appears to be a type of universal pattern. every race, every religion, every kind of human can develop this.
i wonder sometimes if the universe places us like sentinels for the rest of the normal people, just to throw them into a state of chaos or gratitude? i really have no idea what kind of God would create depression so i can't say i believe much in them/him/it, to be honest. i also can't say that i don't believe in Gods or Universal jokes as much as i believe that anything can be a better written story through imagination. my reality, it's not terrible, but it's not wonderful.
it's ok. i survive and sometimes i make art about it. writing the story is far more interesting.
that feels more spiritual that just surviving depression. it's the story i tell about it, before, during and after that seems to be magical. there is something in the writing that i process as a neutral being. a meta self, that is in an imaginative dream state, rather than survival mode. that is mainly why i must write. i don't think i figured that out until just now, just to show how writing it out- works. more than medication or talk therapy [those have a great place in my recovery] writing takes center stage as an act of defiance and resistance to depression.
you can have all these things, you shitty mental illness, but not this.
i look fairly decent today, for a middle aged woman, but i guess i am not as interested in looks as much as substance. beautiful people are as they do, not as they appear. in my experience the bee with honey its mouth always had a sting in its tail anyway.
responsibility. i don't have to write. but i have a part to play in my depression recovery, which writing has become a part of more than i care to admit. i am afraid a lot. i will say it's not a very rational sort of fear. it's not like i have anxiety or anything, i just have a healthy, realistic awareness of growing older that is a little unsettling. it's the kind of fear that leads you outside the house, having coffee with older women and going to volunteer so you're not just taking up space. i do plenty, but i really do seek out things beyond my own existence, even if i secretly don't enjoy them.
but again, one can't be too certain about what is enjoyed or not in the midst of a depressive episode. i doubt very much i could or would enjoy my favorite things, because i know that reality and it's true. if i'm being honest, i probably enjoy sleeping and eating way too much when i am depressed. it can be a herculean task to not sleep and eat all day when these episodes appear. so you see, it's not just about a clean happy home, looking good, eating right, sleeping well, getting out, coffee dates or even knowing this is depression. it's a mental illness. it's not an attitude. it's a warped lens that quite truly skews the entire perception of reality. a reality that was fine three months ago, humming along, making jokes, wearing makeup, going to galleries and making salads from vegetables bought at the farmer's market or grown from my own garden.
it's perceptive amnesia -and it kills people.
it has not got me yet. i guess today, i am most grateful to be reminded i am actively participating in my life, however it looks or feels. no matter how much i must imagine myself happy in order to make it through another day. where i wait. and wait. and wait...
to exit this tunnel.
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