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highlyeccentricWe watched a program about depression last Friday, sitting together over
pizza and beer. It wasn't about those blues we all get--aching scat-songs
of frustrated desire--but about the real thing, illness opening its black
rose in time-lapse, rank garden where the brain chemistry's gone bad.
The program didn't tell us anything I hadn't already discovered, groping
my way through the fog those two years, tapping my fingers along earth's
musty ceiling, searching for the combination that would release me into
the meadow where I'd been standing the day the ground fell through.
It was the same old information--drugs, talk therapy, the electrocon-
vulsive shock I'd once begged for, desperate for a cure. I watched, dis-
tant, critical, bored, demanding "more depth," words that could describe
the mind as tar pit, moonscape, a smoldering slag heap where the world
goes silent, empty of color as a 1920s film.
But afterwards I couldn't stop crying at how close that underworld still is,
and how clearly I remember the taste of dirt in my mouth. And how the
predilection for sadness is embedded within me, an obsidian arrow lodged
in the heart, no matter how tight your good arms are around me, or how
much sunlight I stand in, or how far I've traveled away from the dark
pizza and beer. It wasn't about those blues we all get--aching scat-songs
of frustrated desire--but about the real thing, illness opening its black
rose in time-lapse, rank garden where the brain chemistry's gone bad.
The program didn't tell us anything I hadn't already discovered, groping
my way through the fog those two years, tapping my fingers along earth's
musty ceiling, searching for the combination that would release me into
the meadow where I'd been standing the day the ground fell through.
It was the same old information--drugs, talk therapy, the electrocon-
vulsive shock I'd once begged for, desperate for a cure. I watched, dis-
tant, critical, bored, demanding "more depth," words that could describe
the mind as tar pit, moonscape, a smoldering slag heap where the world
goes silent, empty of color as a 1920s film.
But afterwards I couldn't stop crying at how close that underworld still is,
and how clearly I remember the taste of dirt in my mouth. And how the
predilection for sadness is embedded within me, an obsidian arrow lodged
in the heart, no matter how tight your good arms are around me, or how
much sunlight I stand in, or how far I've traveled away from the dark
no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 06:54 am (UTC)i like that a lot.