Kage Baker didn’t have depression. Oh, she could get depressed – everyone can; everyone does. But she didn’t experience depression as a clinical pathology.
I do. It has made parts of my life extremely weird. Depression, as is well known to those who do end up exploring its shadowed vistas, is not just the grey murk intimated by all those commercials for anti-despressants – especially the ones where the victim’s depression is a sort of blue Schmoo that toddles around after them … Abilify, that’s the crap they’re peddling in that one. Those commercial crack me up and enrage me, all at once.
Depression isn’t cute, and it’s not just a flat effect, either. It isn’t numbness. It isn’t sadness. It isn’t laziness. It isn’t anger. It isn’t pain. It includes all of those things, but hey – so does the rest of life. Depression, from the inside (at least, from inside mine) is all the dark feelings of life cranked up to the max and with the OFF switch disabled. You can function, but not well. And not for very long at a time.
Mine is caused mostly by a serotonin malfunction in my brain. Serotonin re-uptake inhibitors therefore work pretty well for me. But anti-depressants aren’t happy pills: not tranquilizers or euphoriacs. I can get depressed by ordinary things just like a normal person, as well as because my neurotranmitters are being eccentric. So, sometimes, I just can’t win …
My writing holiday in Pacific Grove was a delight and a triumph. Then I came home. I went through all the fun and excitement of the biopsy scare, and seasonal colds, and what might be a flu I wasn’t immunized against; and all the other petty annoyances to which flesh is not only heir, but a freaking collaborator. I’m tired and cranky, and I cannot write, and I miss Kage dreadfully right now. Missing her so badly comes and goes. Right now, it seems to have settled down with every intention of home-steading.
I’ve slipped off the coping of the Slough of Despond. I’m only writing this because Kimberly nobly nagged me to do it.
I’m hoping the act of crouching over my keyboard, fanning the tiny flame of creativity, will result in a nice warming conflagration. Sort of by habit, you know? At least, maybe I can manage to hack a few more sentences out of the yet-unsculpted clay of my inspiration. Such as it is.
Back to the slog.