My gooood two years was so long ago. It’s the longest. Geez who was I back then? Who was that girl? Was that really me?
Well. Now that I’ve successfully started off making absolutely no sense, I can start making sense again. It’s been two years since I popped in here. That’s two years since I wrote. Yes. No kidding. I actually honest-to-god did not write anything for two years (apart from academic essays but those don’t count since they’re straight up organic bullcrap)
Spoiler Alert! I got dat clinical depression yeah boi das what I’m talkin bout dear god WHAT AM I DOING. To be completely honest, that was actually better than what I usually sound introducing my depression to real-life humans. Hello! I’m Skye, and have you met my depression I call her Tony. Depression is a hard nut, impossible to crack really.
Here’s the thing. Imagine my brain is a beautiful library. All mahogany shelves, and white lampshades with golden light and that one high window, with light streaming in. Hundreds of books arranged in the dewey decimal system (yeah boiiii) (okay I’ll stop), hardcover and paperbacks and it all smells wonderful. Every book filled with the things I love, that I care about, that I know and hold dear. This is what my brain used to look like. Depression is a magic trick, blink and you’ll miss it. Poof!- all my books have disappeared, rearranged, lost. Screw pulling rabbits out of hats, try pulling thoughts and passions right out of my brain, pop! There’s just empty spaces left to stare at.
I’ve opened up this very journal countless times in the past two years, the blinking cursor mocking me. I borrowed so many books the librarian must think I am A.I, reading everything in mere seconds. The truth is, every time I opened a book I could not understand why I should get past a page. What does this book really hold? Does it matter? I grab ingredients for cookies and muffins and triple chocolate brownies, I place the sugar jar on the counter. 5 seconds pass, and I put it all right back into the cupboards. Sometimes I woke up, and found myself contemplating if I really really for-sure no-other-choice die-die have to shower. And this was barely all of it. Oh you wouldn’t believe how many things change, how many depression-specific idiosyncrasies creep up on you.
I’m still dealing with it, coping and recovering bit by bit. Part of that is forcing myself to write again- no editing, no backspace, no second guessing. Just write (and hence, I apologise for the incredible extents to which I’ve rambled in this post).
And recovery sucks. Big time. like ENORMOUS time. But you gotta do what you gotta do and I really want to get all of my books back into my library, and put them back in that beautiful dewey decimal system (seriously who invented the DDS I’m obsessed, my organisational heart leaps. It’s so beautiful everything fits I wanna marry it) So, here’s to writing and mental libraries. Cheers.
P.S. I assume Mr Dewey invented the DDC. Or Mr Decimal. I’m not entirely sure. Either way, kudos to you.