The following touches on a dark spot in my mental and emotional history. It is my considered opinion that I have addressed the situation since then, and I continue to do so. I am no longer depressed, I am no longer silent, and I am not alone. The first, I was; the second, I almost was; the third, I have never been.
Hi, all.
My thoughts have been aflutter for the couple of weeks, with the result that I've been writing a lot. Hopefully some of it will be publishable soon. At some point, however, I had to question; why do I write so much, at such length? I used to loathe writing, yet now I barely go a day without it. What changed to draw me to it? I'm not completely sure, but here are some suspicions:
- I have more free time. This is a no-brainer; I'm (still) unemployed, and I can only spend so much time a day studying for the GRE or chasing applications.
- I have been catching up on some topics that I previously neglected. A lot of these thoughts occurred during the school year, but I didn't have time to write then.
- I am reading about issues that strike a chord. In particular, I have found a trove of mental illness blogs and comics, and have blazed through them. It's a subject that troubles me.
- I find it easier to express involved thoughts in writing; there's less chance of interruption, and I have more time to order my thoughts.
- It's therapy.
The first three topics seem rather self-evident, but the last two require some more explanation. Let's start with the first of those.
I've always found verbal communication a challenge. It's not that I can't speak to others--obviously I can--but doing so requires a stupendous amount of energy. The amount of energy necessary increases with the rapidity and degrees of freedom of the conversation (degrees of freedom being the number of people involved). With so many sensory inputs coming in, my brain diverts the energy necessary for output to processing; as such, I often fail to respond quickly when faced with unexpected inputs.
The topic of the conversation matters as well, of course, as does the company. I can discuss politics, philosophy, science, or literature with relative ease, and among my close friends I can discourse with great comfort. When discussing personal or emotional topics, the energy requirements go up a hundredfold; the same is true when in a less well-known audience. Perhaps it's a culturally instilled aversion to some topics, perhaps it's concern of giving offense, perhaps it's fear of making myself vulnerable, perhaps it is a mixture of the above, but sometimes simply speaking requires breaching a wall of hesitation and fear.
Finally, there is the question of forming understanding. Arguably, the whole purpose of language is to bridge the gaps in understanding and viewpoints between two people. That's certainly what I believe, and as such, I believe that honesty is the best policy, always. I believe that we, as a society, need to be franker and more willing to communicate, if we are to bridge the gaps in comprehension that plague us.
Yet even with small gaps, it is not an easy thing to do. So, sometimes I fail to explain myself, not because it is impossible, but because I feel like the effort required to confer understanding in the other party is not worth the energy necessary to instill it. At times like that, I can see a (to me) simple topic dragging into a long and draining argument, with no guarantee of perception from either side. It's simply easier to gloss it over with a "nothing much" or "it doesn't matter" than to build the bridge necessary to cross that canyon.
At other times, I want to build the bridge but I lack the materials necessary. The message I want to convey simply dwarfs the words that I can use to convey it; to put it in words would mean abandoning the largest part of what I wish to say. Sometimes I can't even unpick the knot myself at that moment, much less explain it to someone else.
As for the therapy part…well, sometimes it's simply that I want to be heard and express myself clearly. Other times, it's more than that.
Disclosure: I experienced a bout of depression over winter and spring quarters of the past school year (2013). There was a reason for it, a reason that I have absolutely no desire to discuss, and I was fortunate enough to recognize and address the situation. However, the fact remains that I was depressed and that I cut off contact with much of my social circle, because I could not endure the strain of socialization on top of everything else, and I could not express what I was feeling to my friends without causing pain.
Around this time, I discovered writing. I discovered it because, although I could not bounce my thoughts off my friends, I could bounce them off myself. I could use the written word to analyze my thoughts, my actions, and my emotions. Perhaps, by writing, I could exorcise some of the demons I felt. Perhaps, by writing, I could communicate some part of what I felt, even if only with myself. Perhaps, by writing and choosing what to reveal, I could begin to heal myself.
So I wrote. I wrote, to express the helplessness and disillusionment that I felt. I wrote, because not to write was to keep a tempest in a teacup, and the tempest had grown larger than its container. I wrote, in order to trace the path I had taken from the mountaintop to the valley. I wrote, to cast light on the demons hiding in plain view. I wrote, because writing let me be a part of something; it was a line to throw; it pulled me to earth when I felt myself letting go.
That last may seem odd, but it's strange what can ground you, when you feel yourself being swept away. I have three main methods to recover myself; strenuous exercise, walking, and writing. The first forces an endorphin flood; the second helps me think; the third lets me express those thoughts. That expression is a powerful therapeutic tool, when mere speech seems unable to carry you. Perhaps more important, that expression reminds us that we can communicate with others, and thus, that we are not alone.
So I write. I write because I cannot speak, but words must be said. I write, because writing gives me the time to think, to untie the knot, to build the bridge I need. Yet, in the end, that bridge must reach from my side to another. The three methods I mention above ground me in an emergency; for the long term, sanity lies in belonging. It lies in friendship. It lies in a mission.
In short my friends—you—are my best anchors.
Here are a couple of links I found that sparked this. The common thread I see is a need to speak, and a sense that speech cannot do so adequately.
