Mr. Swanton Discusses the Meaning of Life, Pt. 3
3. A very black mood
Oh, dear... Pardon me. Oh, dear. It's hit me once again. Dearest depression. Like homesickness, it's almost impossible to remember how awful it feels until it creeps back up on you. Be warned: I'm not here to seek sympathy, publicity or pity-driven kinship, and anyone who says otherwise will receive my particularly bony fist burrowing several inches down their miserable throat.
It's a great pity that not all of life can be smiles, sunshine and a quirky exclamation mark dotted on the end of every sentence. There's the grand comedown afterwards, when one ceases to be so ambitious or recklessly eloquent about existence. Of course, it's never a natural comedown where I'm concerned. It's always some unnatural, horrific obtrusion, whether surfacing from within me or the outside world. Actually, it's probably just seeing myself reflected in the light of the outside world that becomes so distressing. Apologies for all breakdowns in grammar, punctuation, and so forth, but creativity is locked in a vice at such frustrating times.
A number of things strike me about these mild depressive fits (might as well inspect them from a vaguely clinical standpoint). You've probably experienced some of them. Becoming a little too hysterical (and not in the positive manner) over nothing. Breaking down in private places - showers, public toilets (well, perhaps not so private), bathrooms... Losing command of dreams and abilities you particularly enjoyed, as you slowly dissolve to an inarticulate puddle on the floor. Waking up on a morning to enjoy that exquisite few seconds before the loathsome situation strikes you like a jackhammer. And sadly (and perhaps inevitably) a rekindled interest in God. Now, if we were all to maintain a sustained devotion to God, would we still elapse into constant moodswings, or merely ramble along at a bland emotional average? It's an interesting experiment, I'm sure. Not one I've ever remembered to try.
A particularly prominent feature of my black moods is an open, raw, hostile resentment of all human contact, those lucky monsters who can never hope to understand this purer form of anguish. Recognise it? It's a horrendous statement I pose myself every month or so, and one I know in my heart can hardly be true. Think of the (strikingly traditional) starving children of Africa! But I am not speaking from the heart right now, I am callously dictating from the brain, and you will listen to what this unseemly lump of festering flesh has left to say.
In actual fact, my depression does sweep in as the result of a purer form of anguish. I shall never be prepared to divulge my secret tortures (and my dignity) over the internet, so you'll forgive that I am not specific here, but rather foggy and abstract... It is a problem I will possess for the rest of my life. I am quite certain of that now. Hope has drained away over a bitter campaign of three years, whilst all sorts of internal battles and deepseated frustrations have waged within.
It is not a picnic being James Swanton at the moment, although it can hardly be as bad as being John Malkovich. Or any other human being for that matter. It is always our fault - we must never lose sight of that simple fact. There is no use blaming somebody else all the time, we have to learn to take proper resposibility for our peculiar hormone induced moodswings. We punish ourselves daily in all sorts of fickle and bitter little manners, through the crude manipulations of our conscience. We are ridiculous, laughable beasts, ridden with madcap inhibitions and inconsistencies, and remain in perpetual need of a reality check. All depression is the result of all-too-human failure. There is nothing so sad in life as a lack of effort, and I believe that (no matter who we may think is responsible) this factor can be traced back down to all of life's disappointments. We are the violator, and the violated to boot.
Still, God is good to me, and continues to support me during this bleak period. I'm not so sure that I have dug up a reasonable conclusion this time round, but it is certainly helpful to vent my insanities over the internet. Why? Lord knows. However, I solemnly believe that if we were all this much more open about our sorrows, the country would dissolve into a putrid mass of self pity and over indulgence, and life would become a corrosive blemish hissing in an acidic puddle. Take this idiotic litany of woe as a profound warning, if you will. Perhaps now and then it is nice to know that a private sorrow is shared, but such a comfort can be drawn from practically anywhere. Shakespeare. The Bible. Fairy tales... Mankind is overripe with interior suffering. You need look no further than a library.
There are few things more noble than keeping silent about personal difficulties, and I doubt I shall be swayed in my view. And if one of these soldiers is to break down in combat, we shall all know that they have fought an admirable, selfless battle, keeping their immortal souls tucked securely under their rib cages. Amen.
Oh, dear... Pardon me. Oh, dear. It's hit me once again. Dearest depression. Like homesickness, it's almost impossible to remember how awful it feels until it creeps back up on you. Be warned: I'm not here to seek sympathy, publicity or pity-driven kinship, and anyone who says otherwise will receive my particularly bony fist burrowing several inches down their miserable throat.
It's a great pity that not all of life can be smiles, sunshine and a quirky exclamation mark dotted on the end of every sentence. There's the grand comedown afterwards, when one ceases to be so ambitious or recklessly eloquent about existence. Of course, it's never a natural comedown where I'm concerned. It's always some unnatural, horrific obtrusion, whether surfacing from within me or the outside world. Actually, it's probably just seeing myself reflected in the light of the outside world that becomes so distressing. Apologies for all breakdowns in grammar, punctuation, and so forth, but creativity is locked in a vice at such frustrating times.
A number of things strike me about these mild depressive fits (might as well inspect them from a vaguely clinical standpoint). You've probably experienced some of them. Becoming a little too hysterical (and not in the positive manner) over nothing. Breaking down in private places - showers, public toilets (well, perhaps not so private), bathrooms... Losing command of dreams and abilities you particularly enjoyed, as you slowly dissolve to an inarticulate puddle on the floor. Waking up on a morning to enjoy that exquisite few seconds before the loathsome situation strikes you like a jackhammer. And sadly (and perhaps inevitably) a rekindled interest in God. Now, if we were all to maintain a sustained devotion to God, would we still elapse into constant moodswings, or merely ramble along at a bland emotional average? It's an interesting experiment, I'm sure. Not one I've ever remembered to try.
A particularly prominent feature of my black moods is an open, raw, hostile resentment of all human contact, those lucky monsters who can never hope to understand this purer form of anguish. Recognise it? It's a horrendous statement I pose myself every month or so, and one I know in my heart can hardly be true. Think of the (strikingly traditional) starving children of Africa! But I am not speaking from the heart right now, I am callously dictating from the brain, and you will listen to what this unseemly lump of festering flesh has left to say.
In actual fact, my depression does sweep in as the result of a purer form of anguish. I shall never be prepared to divulge my secret tortures (and my dignity) over the internet, so you'll forgive that I am not specific here, but rather foggy and abstract... It is a problem I will possess for the rest of my life. I am quite certain of that now. Hope has drained away over a bitter campaign of three years, whilst all sorts of internal battles and deepseated frustrations have waged within.
It is not a picnic being James Swanton at the moment, although it can hardly be as bad as being John Malkovich. Or any other human being for that matter. It is always our fault - we must never lose sight of that simple fact. There is no use blaming somebody else all the time, we have to learn to take proper resposibility for our peculiar hormone induced moodswings. We punish ourselves daily in all sorts of fickle and bitter little manners, through the crude manipulations of our conscience. We are ridiculous, laughable beasts, ridden with madcap inhibitions and inconsistencies, and remain in perpetual need of a reality check. All depression is the result of all-too-human failure. There is nothing so sad in life as a lack of effort, and I believe that (no matter who we may think is responsible) this factor can be traced back down to all of life's disappointments. We are the violator, and the violated to boot.
Still, God is good to me, and continues to support me during this bleak period. I'm not so sure that I have dug up a reasonable conclusion this time round, but it is certainly helpful to vent my insanities over the internet. Why? Lord knows. However, I solemnly believe that if we were all this much more open about our sorrows, the country would dissolve into a putrid mass of self pity and over indulgence, and life would become a corrosive blemish hissing in an acidic puddle. Take this idiotic litany of woe as a profound warning, if you will. Perhaps now and then it is nice to know that a private sorrow is shared, but such a comfort can be drawn from practically anywhere. Shakespeare. The Bible. Fairy tales... Mankind is overripe with interior suffering. You need look no further than a library.
There are few things more noble than keeping silent about personal difficulties, and I doubt I shall be swayed in my view. And if one of these soldiers is to break down in combat, we shall all know that they have fought an admirable, selfless battle, keeping their immortal souls tucked securely under their rib cages. Amen.
posted by James C. Swanton at 9:07 PM
1 Comments:
The thesaurical virtuoso beguiles us with his academically meritorious jottings!
Fantastic!
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