Six weeks are up. Friday past, released back into the wild I'm searching for ways to reconcile with my lack of belonging. I've made it to the other side. I am changed. Relapse is a possibility but I'm armed and ready. Entering the six weeks I was asked by Dr Mcbride if I'm happy my attempt failed, happy to be alive. I told him I was completely impartial to this world. Indifferent. Apathetic. In the final week, the question was posed to me again. I have fleeting moments of inspiration, I said. Of insight. Of beauty. Moments that I feel so high off of my own spirit I swear I could get lost in the serenity of the here and now. Moments that come and go, quickly and swiftly. But they do come. And I appreciate them. I touch them. The dim eyes still rest in my head. I continue to see the world as a trivial place on a daily basis. But I do not wish to leave it. I'm curious about Tibet and Costa Rica, I'm curious if I will publish my book, I'm curious to see Madison grow older, I'm curious to hike with Nestle. Curiosity is a life force stronger than my pain now. Besides, who is "happy." What is, "happy?"
People feel the heaviness of life at times. People feel. Everyone experiences ups and downs. Though I've spent the majority of eleven years dwelling at the back of a man made cave, I can accept that I will continue to experience the regular ups and downs of humanity. And instead of allowing myself to become my emotions, I have learned to keep them from escalating to such a degree. Anyone who knows me well is aware that I spend a great amount of energy analyzing and thinking, and stuffing myself into a tight space of anxiety. I always believed I knew who I was and what I needed. I always believed I was in tune with my body and my emotions and that I was expressing them sufficiently. I can't imagine going back to that belief. Because now, I'm so aware of what my feelings are telling me, what they're truly saying. I have improved my self talk. Constantly evaluating and questioning why I am feeling anxious, angry, irritable, desperate. When I tap into the source of the emotion I can name it. And, as Ben would say, "if you can name it, you can see it, if you can see it, you can kill it."
I have yet to be properly diagnosed. I was told 6 weeks was not long enough to fully assess what I'm burdened with. though, it's been suggested I am living with borderline personality disorder, mild narcissism, and atypical depression. Well which one is it? I wish I could get a clear diagnosis. I feel it would make this all that much more tangible. Or maybe I'm simply a product of my environment, soaking in too much, releasing too little. Either way, the remedy is all the same. The work I bring with me will require attention for the rest of my life. Depression is a part of me, but it isn't me. I am not defined by my sickness. I am committed to being creative, not to being committed.