Sunday, July 15, 2007
Depression, it seems to me, must be like a mottled face on the backdrop of an exquisite Expressionist painting, all of the other individual characters seemingly clear and articulated succinctly with that single, solitary eccentricity standing out for all to point at. I have been known, personally, to go through my own torrential fits of anxiety, bathed and nearly annihilated of my own willing, however, I have only know depression, true depression, through the ravings and melancholies of a select few of my own close friends.
I speak of this for their sake and, more egocentrically, my own. I have been been dragged through their mud and have, of my own volition, succumbed to their demons afterwards. It were as if their filth transfered a virus to me that used me as a breeding ground for evolutionary purposes and, in turn, mutated my own personal daemons. These mutations created their own distinct swampish organisms that were of the mind to tear me into bits of wet, fragmented matter with no use other than that of fuel for an incinerator.
Some of these few individuals have, in their own ways, gotten their lives on a track that, while not quite what I would have chosen for them, seems to be in another direction that would, more efficiently, expedite their release from the deceiving realm of self-loathing. Of course, there are always stragglers that never seem to find a train with the correct delivery needs. These are the ones that I fear for the most. They are reckless, quite often of a sodden nature a good portion of their time, and they feel a maligned inclination to treat their best confidants as their private punching bags. Over years of dealing with this, I have come to the conclusion that these few have no other way of expressing themselves to the ones that care the most so, in turn, they take out whatever they need to on these sad whipping posts.
In all truth, I speak of only one individual. There are no "others" in my current thoughts. I will now disseminate a parable in something of a classical poetic form to allow the reader to understand in the fullest what has been on my mind.
Many a year ago there was a fine young lad.
He spent much of his time being one for melancholy for he was naturally sad.
One day he met a fair maiden of the most brilliant mathematic proclivity,
but she denied all of his attempts at sexual machinations and ingenuity.
Her darkness of character, her soul's natural refraction,
was what caused the lad's initial attraction.
He saw that she had a point of view of beauty that he himself had seen.
His own being had been rife with that same opaque, black screen.
Immaturity made her unwilling and she was of no mind,
but this lad was persistent, straight forward, gentle, and kind.
The years, as time dictates, began to pass gracefully,
the whole time her love from him growing modestly.
She later had seen something that she, as a youth, had never perceived,
for he was diligent, honest, exceptional and would never leave.
But after some time the lad matured and became a man,
and realistically thought that she would never give him her hand.
So, after years of frustration, he focused on his own,
and prudently decided to spend most of his time alone.
Eventually, she had come 'round from her own naivety,
but had forgotten about his gift of brevity.
Mistakes were later made on both parts,
but she could not, in any way, win back any piece of his heart.
He gave her an honest appraisal of his thoughts,
but she couldn't simply place him in the bin labeled "have not's".
This caused her much pain, but now and again,
his mind drifts to her and on to the paper he jots.
To give you an idea on how much I have given you in this minor synopsis, it would be as if you were standing in the middle of Times Square and were attempting to get a view of Olympus Mons on Mars with your bare eyes. This would also be just the bare bones, the base of our story. I call it "our story" because she has been such an integral part of my own life story that I can, at times, hardly decipher between the two of us. Unfortunately, the greatest problem is that our lives have become so intertwined that we may, in fact, be stuck with each other. This is my problem.
I have addressed this issue with several people but have yet to come up with any sort of definitive solution that would alleviate my own private pains and hers. I receive phone calls at odd hours of the night, requests for my accompaniment at inconvenient times and hours of a drab conversation that inspire genuine worry in me. I believe that, for most others, an ulcer would not be out of the question. Sometimes, it feels as if I were being punished for homicide on a grand scale in a previous life. Was I Hitler in a previous life? All in all, I usually have to take a step back and view the situation from afar in an objective way. After all, things always seem far more detrimental on a personal level when you're vantage point is that of the subjective type.
Now I poise for the question: what next? What other possible directions do I have to go? I have seen this problem from all possible angles and there is no good outcome. If I leave I'm afraid of the outcome. If I stay then I risk the possibility of the collapse of my own sanity. There are times that I wonder if she can even get on without me. This may sound egomaniacal, but no one reading this blog really can truly understand the weight of my situation. She needs me. I can't make you understand, but at least I can inefficiently lay the facts of the matter out to you and have you be my judge and jury.
Truth be told, I may never have any sort of safe haven from my past. She will be there for as long as I exist, and there is no other way around it.