Comfort is rare in the despair of a depressive episode. For me, it came unexpectantly through the written work of other depressives. Who knew that the mentally ill could comfort one another? I’m guessing that mental health professionals know this secret since they often recommend support groups and group therapy. I prefer the distant intimacy of pages and ink, both tactile and digital. I discovered a blog from a woman whose emotional turmoil closely mirrored my own and it was damn well near delightful to see my own despair expressed in written word. This enlightenment was refreshing. To find words out there that described my affliction, words that I could claim as my own was close to revolutionary. This meant that I wasn’t alone and that maybe I too could reach the world around me, even in my state.
I often find my dream-self unable to communicate. In my dreams, as I attempt to address the central conflict before me, to my horror I am unable to speak. The words I manage to release are slow and mumbled as if my mouth is glued shut and my words are trapped. There is a possibility that the words I do manage to get out find themselves in the waking world, uttered as I sleep. I’ve yet to record this occurrence or to insist that my husband stay away to witness my sleep talking, so I can’t say for sure.
I’ve concluded that my sleeping mind is similar to my depressed mind. When I am depressed, words don’t often find their way to the waking world. They hide in my mind or on the pages of my private journal. Rarely will a few of them escape to reach even my husband’s ears and the ones that do are for the most part incoherent ramblings.
Somewhere in my quest for sanity and mental well-being, I determined that the freedom of my words may be tied to that sanity. Should I find freedom for these trapped words I may also find wholeness. I don’t know for certain if this is true, but I have to try. To that end, I have spent a year scribbling down thoughts, memories, and revelations. Some I’ve shared; some have lived and died in confinement, and some I hope to purchase freedom for by writing a book. This memoir is almost entirely a selfish endeavor. It is for the future me, asleep again in depression, trying to speak with a tied tongue and trapped words. These words are for her to reference and utilize, like bottling up my voice with some sort of magic, to release later when they might very likely become my salvation. These trapped words may yet free me.
Stay tuned for more on my progress.
All my love, Christina.