Oh good, I didn’t go an entire year since my last post here. I guess I lost a passion for writing when the world got a little to bleak last spring. I started taking anti-depressants around that time… just couldn’t handle how pointless my life had become, completely devoid of direction and purpose. I suppose its interesting that, having just weaned myself off my meds due to lack of health insurance (due to lack of employment), that I get an itch to write again. Its funny, my choice is between crying almost daily for no reason (though often the reason is that there is no reason…for anything) and being able to create, or crying rarely while rarely creating. Depression offers its own different kind of numbing quality to life, so I guess I’ll try it out for a while.
I think about all the people I know who suffer from mental illness. They tend to also be the same people who were severely abused or traumatized at some point in their lives – most commonly as children. I know I fit that category. It seems so unfair… not only to be a victim at your most vulnerable time in life, but also go on to live an entire existence in struggle, pain and misery, as if the assault had never ceased. When I think of the people who commit suicide, whether on purpose or indirectly while living a reckless life, I completely understand. On the other hand, we’re given such a brief amount of time on this planet, in this form… It’s a shame to waste it. But the very term “given” implies there is a giver. I wish that giver would be a little more clear about what to do with our time and what happens when we commit to the right thing. I suppose that’s why religion exists… so people feel like they’ve been given a task to complete. The same way the Dog Whisperer tells owners to give their anxious dogs a job so they don’t get bored and destroy the house. I see very little difference. I’d really prefer a more enlightened life experience than whatever feeling my dog must get when he wears a backpack.
I’m not sure why I get so transfixed on the negative, the suffering. People always tell me that happiness is a choice, a state of mind you can decide to be in any time you’d like. My brain doesn’t seem to want to let me off that easy. It hasn’t yet. Its exhausting. I suppose I’ll keep working at it though, because really… what else is there to do?