Depression. Every day, or at least part of everyday, feels like hell. Your favourite places and people and activities and passions and hopes and dreams are all soggy grey rags in a bucket of cool, mop-water. And then some partying Frat guy pisses in it. The only attractive element of the world is the potentiality for suicide, and/or any and all forms of self-destruction. Why not gash up the ol’ face with a razor blade, or take two bottles of aspirin? says that little, not so little, ever growing voice in your mind. Love is fake, life is pain, some lives are meant to end this way. Happiness was not for you, you were given this path, so just walk it. So just do it, because it’s gonna happen anyway. Suicide so often seems inevitable. With each depressive episode, another one is made more likely, or so the books tell me. So experience tells me. So it’ll only get worse, really. Sure, it’ll be manageable, but it’ll always be there. The voice will find me when I least expect it, when I am feeling great, at a party, at school, alone at home watching Friends, suddenly I will hear it calling; an abusive lover showing up at the door with a two by four and a bottle of Jack Daniels, saying hey baby, I’m spending the night. Do you like my new rings?
There’s so much living inside. The frustration is at times unbearable. As is the sense of defeat. And the loneliness. Oh, the loneliness. The Germans have a word for it: Mutterseelenallein. One of my German professors mentioned it a few years back. It’s a loneliness so profound that even your mothers soul could not comfort you.
To soothe my aching soul, my mothersoullesssoul, I decided to have sushi and go for a movie. Both were good ideas, because the sushi place had these nice tea cups with positive sayings on them, and Searching For Sugarman was playing at the TIFF Lightbox, which I’ve been dying to see. I missed the first twenty minutes because I arrived at 6:15 and didn’t want to wait for the 9:30 show, but that was fine. It’s an amazing story. Sixto Rodriguez is… a regular man, in many ways. A humble and modest man, who happens to be bigger than Elvis or the Rolling Stones in South Africa.
I have a lot to say, to sing, to do. Oh, to write. I cannot forget this. And it’s doable. I’m doing it, I just have to keep on going. It’s hard for everyone. In different ways, to different degrees, but it is selfish to think I am the only one suffering, that I am the only one who feels it is too hard. There are much deeper wounds than this to bear. Not to discredit my experience, but it’s important to remember that even the worst things you can think of, someone has survived and gone on to love life again. It is true. I have seen and breathed and wept with these people. I am a part of them as well, and they are a part of me. Being hopeful is not to be naive or foolish. It takes more courage to walk in the dark than cower in it. Eventually, the light will come. It will go again, but it will return.