Depression is a funny creature. Just when you think you are in the clear, She sneaks up behind you and pulls you back in.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot
Though I wouldn’t call myself an artist in any professional sense of the word, I am rather left-brained. It would seem that often madness and emotional turmoil go hand in hand with a heightened imagination and deeper need to nurture the soul through creative endeavors.
Growing up, my father always played the Blues.
Throughout my childhood, I suffered silently through feelings of self-hate, paranoia, and the fear of disappointing my family. Although I performed well in school – performed being the operative word – I was never truly happy.
My fear of doing “something wrong” stopped me from truly experiencing the life I was, at the time, blessed to live. My childhood passed me by without any meaningful friendships – or, for that matter, really any friendships at all. At an age where I should have had innocent relationships with my peers in order to understand myself and really blossom into the person I would have become, I studied hard, had manners, and always did the right thing.
But I was fat.
And this was always held above my head as the ultimate failure. My wealthy relatives on my father’s side insisted that my mother had “made me fat” out of spite to embarrass them amongst their friends in high society. My father asked, although out of concern for my health, whether I did not want to sit in a chair without taking up the whole thing. And my mother continued to feed me.