I’ve kept a journal of sort for most of my adult life. I can’t make sense of the world unless I write.
I guess this could be a good record, a place to enter memory lane.
But for me it’s not.
What I’ve written about the most are the hard times. The times that didn’t make sense. Most of it was written with shaking hands and with shades of depression that made seeing past three feet nearly impossible.
One thing that has always bothered me about depression is that I can’t find any real account of it – in art or word or drama – that speak to what it really felt like to me. It’s all lacking something – maybe the pain, maybe the depth, may the utter despair – and I wanted to be able to fill that gap. I wanted my voice to fill the void so others could see themselves in it and feel less alone.
And so I went back. I opened up a page. I started to read.
And I almost vomited. My hands started to shake. They went weak. My head started to spin and even right now, I can’t catch my breath. I feel dizzy.
Because once you wake up from a nightmare, how can you convince yourself to go back, if even for a moment?
But if none of us go back, if none of us revisit those times with new lenses, well then how can the art be made? How can the truth be shared? How can we build bridges to help fellow suffers make it to the other side?
I’ll find the strength. I’ll share my struggles. But tonight I need to allow myself to survive.