Beyond the Pain

I often wonder what it would be like to not be moody.

I’ve tried to remember what life was like before my Manic Depressive Illness kicked in. I remember times, or at least I think I remember times, when I felt joy. For instance when my daughter was born. I remember the sheer terror of her breech birth and the flush of happiness when she was actually born, whole and sound, with a very bruised bottom.

But, today, some 28 years after my mood disorder was triggered I wonder what it would be like to be normal. To not experience the ebb and flow of moods. In particular, to not experience the painful embrace of depression. To not shuffle through the morning feeling gray and dull. To not have a part of me that wants to drown itself in the searing pain of sadness.

I have a friend who claims to have never been depressed. And, I believe that to be so. She seems possessed of an eternal perkiness, as if equipped with some special force field that repels badness, sadness, and meaness.

I wonder what it would be like to be her. To not be downed by the challenges of life. To not be sadened by the shitty, evil things we humans do to each other. To not feel dispair at the cruelness we perpetrate on each other.

I know she cares about others. It is clear from what she says and does. Yet somehow that caring never seems to drag her down; as it does me.

Part of me seems to live off the side somehow, an interested observer. “He” listens to the melancholy stories of my sad self and seems bemused; if not downright disgusted by the seemingly constant whining and complaining.

And, yet that sad part of me seems to take control on these cloudy days. She, for it seems that part is a she, feels such exquiste pain. Such deep acrid sadness that permeats every cell and molecule of my being.

The observer raises a bemused eyebrow and thinks, “Fuck. Here we go again! How long must I put up with this shit?”

And, yet somehow this sad pain seems so much a part of who I am, of who I have become.

The observer wonders, why do poets, songwriters, and artists wallow so much in pain?

And, yet somehow I welcome the sadness and pain. Not so much that it proves that I can feel. Nor so much that it proves that I am alive. Yet it is a welcome friend.

I want to drown in melancholy. I want the sadness to permeate every crevice and crack of my being. I want to take a razor and cut open my skin, slice my veins and bleed out the dark crimson sadness.

What will that accomplish? I don’t know. All I know is that somehow if I absorb all my sadness; somehow if I suck it deeply, wholely into my being; somehow if it become all of me, it will transform me.

Into what I know not.

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth All Rights Reserved

MorningPages March 14, 2010 – March Madness

The warning to Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March”, often comes to my mind, especially as March 15^th nears.

March seems to be a time pregnant with significance. I’m not sure if it is or not. Maybe it’s just that the events that happened in March are so much more memorable. Then, of course, there is the fact that March always used to herald, not only Spring, but the return of my hypomania.

I yearn for those easy days when I had Winter SAD and my down cycle only lasted 3 months. Oh, and when those down cycles only meant lethargy, carbo cravings, anhedonia, suicidal ideation, and crashingly deep depressions. Oh, to have those time back, when March meant the return of Robins chirping their mating calls, elevated moods, a literal Spring in my step, and the flooding, rushing tide of ideas and ambition.

Now, March is simply March. Well, maybe not.

This last week has been so fucking exhausting, confusing, an emotional roller coaster.

Then I remembered: the first half of March is, in fact, pregnant with significant dates.

March 8, 1985: My ‘failed’ attempt to kill myself by hanging.

March 6, 1986: Divorce court.

March 10, 1989: JT moves in with me, and our relationship goes to complete shit.

I’m sure there are other March events of significance, but these are all I remember today. And, certainly more than enough to evoke March Madness.

I look out the window as the sun strikes the windows of the downtown office towers and I am both grateful that I am alive and wishing that I were dead.

I forget who said that being able to hold 2 contrary thoughts in one’s brain was some kind of good thing, but I have long had this ‘wonderful’ ability to feel simultaneous optimistic-aliveness and death-wish pessimism.

It is like different parts of me want totally divergent outcomes. And, depending on which part is stronger: I am hopeful, touched with joy, and welcome the future. If, on the other hand, the dark one takes control: I am sad, defeated, crushed, and dread the next minute, hour, and day.

Such is March Madness: the ever eternal dance of Mood. Sometimes a languid Waltz, other times a fierce Tango. But never still, never silent, never calm.

And, now much worse. For a new companion has intruded on the Dance: Pain.

So, to the ebb and flow of Mood is now added the shifting sensation of Pain.

Sometimes crushing me in her embrace.

Sometimes burning with icy needles.

Sometimes both.

And, only occasionally quiet, still, silent: gone!

Beware the Ides of March!

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved