I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.
Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle.
"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked.
"What?"
"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."
Depression likes solitude, and peace, and quiet. This is the second reason it beckons to you, like a siren song. Because it's easy. It's so easy. All you see, hear, feel is a lack of glaring light, noise, touch; a big, blank hole, with a pouring darkness in it, sucking you in. Far less trouble than making conversation, than ensuring others are feeling okay, than going out, than cooking, than showering, than turning lights on in a room.
Usually, summer - or at the very least spring - is running my psyche. But, occasionally, perhaps a little like Persephone descending into The Underworld for her allotted time with Hades, I can't help but let winter into my thoughts, and Cerberus, in his guise as the black dog of depression, manages to slip his leash. Thankfully, I am learning to get him under control, and make my way back to sunnier climes and blue skies of a happy soul.
But some people - well, for them, winter is a way of living, rather than just days on a calendar. Cold is ingrained in their personalities; it's almost as though they don't want to step into the sunlight for fear they may be burnt by happiness. Instead, they slap on Sensory Protection Factor 30 Plus, and allow the ice to become a part of their makeup, right down to the bone.
The Terrible (Forty)Twos give you a lack of will to want to do stuffs. Any stuffs. They make one want to burrow under the doona and not come out until the champagne and red velvet birthday cake with forty-three (!!!) sodding candles* on it come waving past the pillow, tempting the grey roots and panda eyes blinking into the sunshine.
““One reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.” ”
I have been busily hiding away from the world of late, mainly because I have been feeling like an immense puddle of yuckiness physically; and for all those who are/have been long term ill, you will know that along with the physical fatigue comes that even more attractive ailment - mental exhaustion.
It is tiring being a sickypuss. It wears your brain out, particularly if, like myself, you are, when healthy, one of those lunatics who has a brain which whirs a million miles an hour, particularly at three o'clock in the morning when normal people are dribbling happily into their pillows.
Feel like crud, and I guarantee you that your intellect will turn into a bowl of week old Weetbix. Which, particularly as someone who in theory writes for a living can attest to - ain't good for business.
And yes, the old woofy frenemy Black Dog tends to rear his head when one is feeling a bit on the blah side, turning from a Chihuahua into a Great Dane, and that's a depressing enough thought for everyone without actually writing about depression, so let's just say the pup has been barking his head off and leave it at that.
But back to the sleepy psyche.
I have not paid any attention to the news - with the exception of a few unavoidable big ticket items - for about a month. I'd be ashamed of this normally, because I'm a current affairs junkie (the topic, not the show - blergh), but of late? It's news, it will soon be olds, and I have been hard-pressed to take in what I should eat for breakfast let alone dealing with how many Americans have taken up a Health Care Plan (apparently it's approximately 100,000 - see, I do read more than trashy YA fiction when my brain isn't in sleep mode).
But over the weekend, as my body started to do a small software upgrade, the old grey matter started to hum again - and so I got stuck in to what has been going on in the world. After about three hours of reading, watching, and pod cast listening, I made an executive decision.
Not only is the world way more depressed than me, but the information available is so infantile that I think I would rather go back under the doona and start my own publication; HOW TO WRITE A NEWS STORY WHICH CONTAINS ACTUAL NEWS AND NO HYPERBOLE.
Apparently, whilst on my brief time out from The Daily Planet, those good old monkeys with their typewriters have taken over news reportage. For example, this morning on a certain anonymous online news site (which shall remain anonymous because they have a lot more money than me and the owner doesn't tend to take slander - um, constructive criticism well), these were the headlines:
And here I was thinking I'd missed significant international events, like whether or not Syria has blown itself to pieces and the fact that 34 people have been killed in PNG after a grenade attack. All this time I have been worried that my knowledge of world affairs has been suffering, when what I should have been concerned about was that JFK joined the mile high club before he bit the big one. That's what's important about the 50th anniversary of his assassination, of course; not the way the course of history was altered.
Seriously, when did we become quite this apathetic? Is this what people really care about? Chain smoking babies? I know I myself have the attention span of a goldfish, but sheesh.
I have always felt very fortunate in that I have friends who are interested in the world around them. Who enjoy debating politics, and religion, and pretty much everything one shouldn't discuss in polite society, which therefore means we do it as much as possible.
There are some amazing journalists around. Once upon a time they would have been given the chance to show their talent - and that's over any medium, digital, print or other. And, if you dig hard enough, you can find the 'actual' news.
But when all most of them have to work with is 'a teenager has stolen a boob job' - I'm not quite sure how that translates to the possibility of a Pulitzer.
So, beloved doona, I am returning to your fluffy folds. My brain may have re-engaged, but apparently if I want to find out what's happening out there, I need to get excited about Scientology.
And that just isn't going to happen.
I'm too scared of Tom Cruise.
““Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.” ”
Today is R U OK? Day - and already on social media this morning I have seen criticism of the day, ranging from 'people should be asking others if they're alright every day' to 'at least use proper letters - dumb name'.
Yes, it would be amazing if people asked others if they were alright every day. But let's face facts. We are selfish, greedy beasts, we humans - and if a day such as R U OK? Day can get us to stop and think about others - for even a moment - then it's alright in my book. As for the name - we live in the Age of Textarius. Much to my secret sorrow, what grabs the attention more - Are You Okay or R U OK? And anything that can bring attention to suicide prevention - well, that gets a free pass from the Grammar Goddess.
The number of people who struggle with depression in Australia is growing. People are scared to talk about how they feel - we are expected to achieve so much, to keep achieving, to keep up the pace, to go the distance, to succeed, to provide, to be happy, to race for the finish line. And all whilst pegging back the darker emotions or feeling tired, or sick, or drained of energy.
Or perhaps coping with grief and sorrow - and finding it all too hard, and just quietly slipping away because nobody has noticed the stress-lines beneath the surface.
We are all guilty of two things - and often it's not out of any lack of care or compassion. One, we DON'T ask our loved ones often enough if they are OK; and two - we don't ask ourselves.
So today, don't only check on those you care about.
Do a self-check too.
Make sure you are, if not happy, then at least in a mental place where you feel you are capable of reaching out for help. Look inside. Say to yourself 'Am I coping? Am I waking up of a morning wishing it would all just go away?'
Sometimes it is harder to ask yourself that question and give an honest answer that it is to look someone else in the eye and say 'no, I am not OK'.
But if you expect that honesty from them - give it to yourself too.
And yes, it would be great if every day we asked 'are you OK?' of friends, family and co-workers. Maybe start with today - and a simple text, or message, or phone call. I will even be relaxing my rules.
R U OK?
“Inigo Montoya: I donna suppose you could speed things up?
Man in Black: If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do.
Inigo Montoya: I could do that. I have some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.
Man in Black: That does put a damper on our relationship. ”
This may seem initially like a very depressing post, and nothing at all to do with gratitude, or even shoes for that matter (and when shoes aren't helping it means it's a bloody great beast of a black dog kind of day). And you would be right in some ways. It isn't a happy, marshmallow-filled, fluffy bunny kind of entry. But that's OK. Because sometimes, life just isn't like that - which is one of the reasons why I write about shoes some of the time (see Heel Thyself for background on that one).
I have been having what I tend to term a Long Dark Teatime of The Soul, or as I also call it, A Need To Give Myself A Good Slap Around The Head And Sort Myself Out. I am aware that the latter is not a technical psychiatric or psychological term, and quite possibly is actually frowned upon in said circles, but it tends to work for me most of the time. And one of the ways I deliver said Slap is to write down what is wrong - and also what is right. Having now done that, things are seeming to make a lot more sense.
Nobody can be happy one hundred percent of the time. That would make them robots. But sometimes - well, sometimes the happiness quotient slips below the acceptable mark to a point where it's hard to get the energy to come back to the median point on the table. And this is where the Slap is so important - and also hard to deliver when one is physically and emotionally tired.
Please be aware that I don't go around physically hitting myself in the head - I may be depressed but I am not masochistic (those who have witnessed me wearing shoes that are vastly uncomfortable but incredibly gorgeous please hold their tongues. Oh - I just mentioned shoes - see, writing things down does help!).
What I am talking about with the Slap is recognising that something is wrong; that you are perhaps caught in the UnderToad of Life and are being swept out from the shore. That the frantic hand gestures are not a sign of buggerising around in the waves and having a good time but are actually a gesture for help.
This is where the gratitude comes in. And it takes two forms.
I am grateful that I have incredible people around me who both are close enough and intuitive enough to recognise when I am in fact flailing and coughing up salt water. They are supportive and empathetic without being sooky-la-la (which they know I can't stand above all else) and they reach out to grab me without my having to reach for them first. They are all incredibly busy people - some in massively stressful situations or even outright dangerous occupations - but they support me, and in the right way. And secondly - I am grateful to myself. Which sounds supremely egotistical I know; but once upon a time I would not have had the strength to admit I was going under the water; and would instead have just let it take me out to sea and ended up who knows where for who knows how long.
So you see, this is about gratitude. As it turned out, it was also a little bit about shoes.
Mostly though, it's about not going under.
Because the School of the Slap doesn't believe in that.
