Friday, May 29, 2009

Depression Speaks © Megan Snider

"Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well."
--Plath "Lady Lazarus" (click to read)

I think that Plath had her finger right on the waning pulse of depression. Depression is a cycle, mostly. It may not feel like one, but it is.

I'm going to do an experiment, since I have just been roused out of my ignorant days of happiness and hope by the punch in the jaw of the fist of reality. I've just had another handful of teeth knocked out by depression again.

Here's a quite tame expression of clinical depression for your observation.

On the surface, we have the steady throbbing emptiness of total despair that wastes away at the soul.

The threadbare linen, the white shroud that haphazardly clings to the being.

Then we have the being, the hard shell and the center that is in all actuality a whirlwind.

It does not take much to start depression back up again because it never really goes away.

A tooth pulled, a finger sliced, a black eye-- always affirmed with those everlasting aches.

The heart, bruised and tarnished with years of stains and regret and sweat-- false hope and false dreams-- finally learns to beat for no reason other than to write.

I write because I can. Everything can and will be taken away from me with time. Bluntly put, time destroys everything and somehow my touch causes empires to crumble-- not because of my power, but because of the shrug in my shoulder and the void in my eyes-- because I fail and am a failure.

I guess maybe the last thing I have is the alphabet. That is funny to say, but it is true. A word, some words, a lie, some lies-- it's all the same-- it all comes out the same way and reaches the same end-- with a gigantic accumulation of absolute nothing.

The hopes of youth, the hopes of passion, the hopes of victory-- the hope of something-- all disappear

--From my hands.

--Just give it time.

This is a tame example. It's been edited and watered down so no one gets too scared or disturbed.

Most people with Bipolar Disorder commit suicide during their manias because they know what is coming next-- the fall...and the crushed spirit and broken bones: Incapacitation.

If you understand metaphors, then you can see what I'm driving at here.

The desire to be pulled to the grave, as I related before when I quoted from "Tithonus".

Nothing is lower than this moment.

But it lasts forever.

I know why Plath put that tape on the door frame and put her head in the oven.

Do you?

© Megan Snider


  1. Megan, your writing right now, dark as it is, is a whisper of validation to those who feel what you feel.

    You wrote:
    ~I feel like the same treasures that other people find in their lives were not created for me to enjoy.
    ~ I resent the fact that people with AIDs or cancer get to live "brave" and "noble" lives, while people with mental illnesses are just insane.
    ~ I have fallen in love with men and then said to myself, "It's time to stop now." And I've snapped the necks of plenty of my dreams.

    On all those points and most others, your voice comes through and speaks the words of that feel so true to so many.

    You DO have the alphabet, words, a voice. You must feel some sense of freedom when you release your thoughts from mind to page. It is your lifeline.

    Those who suffer as you do, Megan, feel your pain and hurt for you, hope for you. We hear you. - ananji

  2. I'm glad. Thank you.

    I was afraid to write this post because I was not sure how people would react.

    Publically I am making the statement, "I am not right and this is why."

    And I was very worried about it.

    But, on the other hand, people do documentaries all the time on people suffering from medical illnesses-- I see there's a new show coming out called "Obsessed" about people with OCD.

    That made me feel good for a little while. If people can watch that and learn, then good. If people watch that and laugh, then they're not evolved enough to be called "human".

    I guess I'll leave the post as it stands. Sometimes I am afraid I am the only one that feels this way, but I think your post clears up the fact that I'm not.

    As long as other people feel this way, too, then it's staying-- somehow as some sort of monument to what people out there are feeling.

    It's not about me.

    It's about dealing with these thoughts.

    I talked last night with "someone" who was commited and I was told where to go and get help if I needed it. The conversation reassured me in some way because at least I knew how "this person" felt and what "this person" was describing. Everything "this person" described is everything I could remember feeling and was feeling at the time.

    I can't mention names except my own. I can only tell stories.

    It is comforting to some degree to hear the stories of others dealing with this. It forms a bond beyond blood. I wish I had more time to write on this blog today, but I have to make some money.