Everyone has some sort of mental problem these days. If you
don’t have a mental problem and aren’t on some sort of psychotropic medication
to treat some anxiety or depression disorder, then you have a gluten allergy or
a lactose intolerance… No one is normal anymore. No one sleeps well and feels
pride in their hard day’s work. No one has enough money and everyone has
something to complain about. I, for one, have a lot of mental problems. I haven't
ever been real shy about that fact. I have mostly dealt with Panic Disorder for
the majority of my teen and adult life; and as anyone who has an anxiety disorder;
you get the added bonus of an underlying depression issue. You get all down and
out about being scared all the time. Again, not anything I’ve ever been really
shy about; as more than evident by my facebook status updates, ancient
livejournal posts or even via this blog.
At the moment, I am in a red-alert/stage 3 depression cycle.
Depression, in case you didn’t know or have never experienced it, is a sneaky
bastard. Anxiety is easy; you are in an elevator, you are scared of elevators,
you have an anxiety attack, you know what that is.. Action/Reaction – Analyze/Confirm.
Depression…? You have about a week and a half of not eating well, barely
sleeping, wondering why you are crying at baby food commercials and then you
realize … oh, I might be in a depression cycle. It sucks because you are
sometimes so far in it you don’t really know how to get out of it. Anxiety…? Take
a valium. Depression…? Wait it out...? Maybe…? There aren’t a lot of options.
How this all relates to music, you may ask. I am, as I said,
currently at one of the lowest points of my whole life that I can let myself
even remember. Sucks, yeah. I know. So after a week or two of lying around on
my couch feeling sorry for myself, I am trying to baby step my way back into
the land of the living by doing the only one or two handful of things I know
have worked in the past. In this instance; writing. Depression makes everything
grey… Lackluster… Nothing is shiny, nothing sounds good, and nothing tastes
good. Nothing feels good. No TV show or movie is funny enough, no song is
meaningful enough, and no book is interesting enough to read. No crossword
puzzle is challenging enough to make you feel accomplished. So maybe, just
maybe, if I keep plugging away at this, doing the one thing I know I have the
slightest bit of confidence in myself left about, writing, then maybe it might
kick something off.
I haven’t been to shows. I haven’t really been interested in
being social. I have been crabby and weepy and overly clingy to my boyfriend
and my best friend and then feeling guilty about how much I “need” them at the
moment. I post on facebook and instantly remove statuses because I’m worried it
will worry people. This morning, I found myself quoting TS Eliot and then
realized I was at my own personal “stage 3 Depression” and I found myself defining
what that meant. And I decided the only way I really know how to relate this to
anyone, especially any of those who follow my blog and know it is all music
related, is through the music I chose to listen to when I am down. I will now
break down for you the three stage karla- depression levels as they correlate
to my iPod playlist.
Stage One
Not too bad, kinda bummed. This usually kicks in every two
weeks in those last days before payday when I find myself unable to afford cups
of coffee or smokes and then I think “I am too old for this living paycheck to
paycheck bullshit/I am such a failure at life to still be struggling like this”.
Then I play a lot of say… quasi-inspirational… U2 songs, some Peter Gabriel,
some Kate Bush… Then I get paid then I feel better because I can afford to put
gas in my car. All is well. Stage One Depression is most common, most easily
defeated by Achtung Baby or The Sensual World and doesn’t stick around very
long.
Stage Two
Or as I like to call it “Morrissey: Threat-level Zero”… If
for any reason some additional stressor hits while I am in the throes of stage
one, I am very easily nudged into stage two. This can most likely occur with
the added factor of romantic or health problems. If the BF and I get in a
tussle or my Ménière's starts acting up, then I start getting real vocal about
the depression. This is when I start telling people “I’m just feeling kinda
down” and I post a lot of mopey Moz shit on my facebook. I may find myself
overplaying certain Elbow or Explosions in the Sky albums to myself whilst
staring off into space in the middle of sitting at coffee shops trying to do
puzzles and zoning out. I’m never really sure how I get out of this one. I
never seem to know I am out of it until I just am. I suddenly find myself not
playing Morrissey as much as more and more Talking Heads or Björk shows up on my
iPod and then it’s gone.
Stage Three
I’ve only been here like, three times in my whole life. Not really
down with going into the first instance, but the second instance was when I found
out I had Ménière's Disease and I was going to be dizzy the rest of my life and
eventually lose my hearing and I got really down on myself and spiraled out of
control. It was one of those feeling like I was standing on a mountain of shit
and everything I loved was on fire around me and I was shaking my hand at God
with whatever last ounce of fight I had left in me and screaming “oh yeah God?!
What else you got?!” (A la Lt. Dan on top of the shrimp boat, perhaps?) And
then I got struck with lightening and I felt my soul just lie down and give up.
The only thing that saved me then was my therapist.
Years go by, literally this was oh…. 4 years ago I went
through all that; I thought for sure I knew what to do if I ever got here
again. And it didn’t click. It tricked me again. The mountain of shit was
piling up higher and higher and I didn’t realize I was drowning in it until it
all caught on fire. And this time I didn’t even bother to shake my fist at God,
I just lied down and if I floated on top of the burning shit of my life and
somehow made it to some tolerable Ararat of the soul, cool. If not, so be it. I
can’t fight it anymore.
For the past few weeks I haven’t listened to anything,
really. Haven’t been to any shows, even those I was thrilled to see. Haven’t bought
tickets to shows. Haven’t really posted any videos to facebook. Haven’t cared
enough. That’s the last stage of the depression. When you don’t care enough to
tell anyone how bummed out you are anymore. You just lie down on the floating
pile of burning shit and assume everyone is sick to death of you crying wolf
and will just let you go this time.
I really thought I was there this time. Didn’t have anything left to hear that could
reach me, anything left to inspire me. No one left to fight for me. Couldn’t listen
to any U2 because I didn’t feel like I deserved it. Couldn’t listen to Morrissey
because it felt patronizing. But there was something. There was one thing. I
had always believed it was Oscar Wilde and/or Bono who could always reach me. This
morning, after one of the absolute worst weekends of my life, barely commutative and practically planning my own funeral
service, I remembered…
There was a poet. There was a composer.
There was one last poem.
There was one last piece of music.
And now, this morning, I am remembering the Guernica. Kandinsky
and Nijinsky. Plath and Emily Dickinson. Philip Carey’s self-deprecating love for Mildred. Heathcliff’s
plea for Cathy to haunt him. And as always; my dearest Toulouse-Lautrec. And the
madness. The spark that can only come from the most silent darkness. The flame
that can only come from a dying soul. How insanity may be the only true
inspiration of the greatest of men.
And then I wrote this and I kept going. I am not the
greatest of men. I may never be. I may die drowning in my own mediocrity and
run-on sentences. Yet I suppose, until then, I will keep writing. And maybe you’ll
keep reading and maybe one day something I said will give you the strength to
go on that Igor Stravinsky and TS Eliot gave to me this morning.
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