Arbitrary
http://amandapalmer.net/blog/20140112/
I read Amanda Palmer's newest blog this morning, her talking about her friend who took his life a little while ago - the beginnings of their relationship, their past friendship, and, of course, the killer, "I owed him a text" (I know that feeling). The writing immediately took me to a weird place: just as I follow and am a fan of several people who lead what is labeled by the politically correct as "alternative lifestyles" (I just call it "life," bitches), I follow and am a fan of several people who deal with mental health issues. I am drawn to their honesty and their candidness, as I am attracted to their strength and conviction not to be defined by this one aspect of their lives. I am enriched by reading their words.
But their words do lead me to question my Universe sometimes. Like today.
I don't suffer from Depression with a capital D as we describe here at Casa de las Pecans; I get dark and moody, I find myself in a very self-absorbed place nitpicking all the negative things in my life and my past; but I don't get to that realm where everything seems pointless, that this is it and this is all it will ever be, and it will never be any better; and I certainly don't get to that place my lovely Lady Fair and so many other people know so well, that place where you just feel nothing, this overwhelming sense of apathy that leaves the sufferer basically feeling inhuman. I'm over-sensitive and overly empathetic, and I feel every pain the world has ever felt sometimes, but I am blessedly free of that torture.
(I have felt it though, once, for a brief amount of time - the week of the Desert Storm ground assault, when the bombing stopped and the boots hit the ground. For that week, when I was awake I was scared to the point of numbness, like when someone is video taping something and a loud noise goes off, so loud it cancels out of the noise on the tape until the vibrations dissipate - that's how scared I was, scared to the point the emotion cancelled out every other emotion including being scared. For one brief week, I was a walking shell of a human being; for one brief moment, I know what it's like to be my wife.)
I don't know why I don't have Depression with a capital D. I look at my life, I look at myself, I look at all my faults and foibles and shortcomings, and I definitely look at my tendency to got to extremes (either loving passionately or hating utterly), and I marvel at the fact that I'm not Depressed. I'm not Anxious, I'm not anti-social, I'm not bi-polar, schizophrenic, or even manic. I'm ME, which is to say I'm all the things I described above (especially the over-sensitive and overly empathetic), which leaves me in the "he's a little odd" category. But other than needing to talk about things from time to time, I don't wrestle with bad mental health. And the fact I don't sometimes just astounds me - it seems that I would. It feels like I should. I don't know why I don't.
I am grateful, though - I've seen what Depression with a capital D can do to a person, and I feel completely blessed it's not me. So please, don't get me wrong - this isn't some secret pine to be just as messed up as everyone else, to be part of the "In Crowd" - this is me saying there's a mystery in my life, a riddle in the universe, that doesn't have a ready-made answer: why the Lady Fair? Why not me? What rhyme or reason picks and chooses which person will struggle and which one won't?
Why is it so seemingly arbitrary?
My lovely Lady Fair will tell you, "It's Science. It's chemicals and your family history, and any number of other facts that decide," which, of course, is completely true, spoken as only someone who has chosen to deal with her issues can. Oh, and nothing aggravates me more than to see some person I know post on their Facebook page, "Will someone PLEASE tell my spouse/family that Depression is REAL and it HURTS?" You are damn straight Depression is REAL and it HURTS - I got your back.
Still seems unfair. Still seems very arbitrary. Probably because it is. And always will be.