I hate being depressed. Hate, hate, hate it. Because I KNOW it's not me. I am sitting comfortably over here, being annoyed by the tweenagers downstairs* and meanwhile there is this little--a teaspoon full! a thimbleful! a few drops!--chemical in my brain that is making me so soddenly depressed and pathetic that I can barely move. What am I depressed about? Nothing. But I have this chemical. This weird chimaera in my body that makes me throw myself down dramatically on my bed and quote "Hamlet:"
"I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours."
I feel like the glowing, loving part of me is melting and too big to be held in my cupped hands, like my heart will never work again. Like I'll never walk a straight line again--nor should I try, because whenever I do, I'll just fall over. I can't think, I can't focus, all I can do is eat and sleep and wait for my body to work this chemical out.
I did not write anything yesterday, nothing worth wasting paper or air on. I don't know if I'll ever write anything worthwhile again. I don't feel like trying. I'm completely beaten down. There's no point. If I was going to be a playwright, I would be one by now. But I'm not, so I'm not. QED.
My book this week is a biography of Abraham Lincoln, written by the same author who wrote the MLK Jr biography I read. I really love his style, it is very evocative, history-wise. And I love his description of Lincoln's early life, his struggle with "hypochonria" which is the Victorian term for depression--"a touch of the hypo" as his friends would note. Well I know that feeling. I love Lincoln when he talks about a return to the desires of the Founding Fathers, his incredible ability to fight for what he believes in, and his honesty. I'd rather read about the Senate election of 1858 than watch CNN today.
"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god!"
*(they get ten more minutes with their crappy tween music turned up too loud before I go downstairs and kick the door down)