The battle rages on

I wonder if I should quit this blog. This battle I'm in with depression is raging hard, and it's not pretty. I can try to post only when I'm feeling fine, but that would be dishonest. I seem to care more about honesty than readership. That's a pretty lousy strategy when one wants dialogue.

Therein lies one of the nastiest things about depression. One needs support, but isolation is what one usually gets. Who wants to hear more depressing things? I don't. I know I crave that which soothes my soul, not that which brings me down.

So, I think "I should post only good things, yes. . .I will. . .I must. . .I shall. . .I promise I won't write when down. . ." That fails, for the urge to communicate when lonely and in pain is strong. How many people feel this way? After a while, they shut up. Of course they do. Who wants to hear it, yet again? Not I!

I was in a good mood yesterday, but I could feel the precariousness of it. It was dependent on being in the company of others, being surrounded by nice yarn, decent weather, not being in too much physical pain. I woke up this morning hurting something bad. It took me by surprise. I've been doing so much to help myself; why did I feel so lousy?

When I discovered I had about as much energy as it takes to make it from one room to another and not much more, I wept. I also wept for living here, quite frankly. If I lived in a city, I would have forced myself to get dressed and go for a stroll. There's no place to stroll here. Besides that, the countryside is not for the unwell. One needs good health and energy for the country (except, perhaps, during the summer). In the city, one doesn't need to know how to fix things, or to be able to drive, or to know anything at all. You don't even have to cook. In New York City, at least, one can get perfectly healthy take-out food for less than the price of groceries. And if it's company one needs, it's always at hand. The country, at least in winter, is not healthy for me, yet here I am, quite frankly, homesick as a person can be. Maybe that's what is at the root of the depression. I've lost people in this life, and have learned to live with it, but the homesickness for where I'm from only gets worse with time. It's come as a huge surprise. I always did think one could home again, but one can not. Someone famous wrote those words - you can't go home again. Silly me, I thought it was a platitude.

Photo note: New York in the 70's