Darker than the blackest cloud

It’s a cliche but it’s so true: depression is just like a dark, black cloud. It’s crept up on me, as it does, and I honestly haven’t felt so sickeningly depressed for months and months. I can’t drink or eat and would quite happily curl up and die.

I’m trying desperately to think of happy things, and to stop worrying about the bigger picture. It works for a few moments then I’m back to square one. I haven’t yet reached that stage of “ah, yes! I can see the light.” The light is only a dream at the moment, and everything seems impossibly impossible. I can’t wait to feel on top of things again. This has been a Christmas to forget.

I hate New Year

It’s the expectation of enjoying yourself which is the worst, most painful thing. I don’t want to be happy and joyous if I don’t feel like it! It’s the end of the year; why is that something to celebrate? The following day will be a new year; how terrifying is that?

It’s not for me. New Year can go away.

Breaking the family cord

I suppose I’ve known it for a couple of years, but Christmas has a wonderful way of focussing the truth. In order to help my family, who I love dearly, I have to distance myself from them. My Mother said to me tonight, “all our problems are ours to be shared” and to an extent that is true. But only I can dig us out of this financial nightmare and, to do this, I have to a) live elsewhere (which I already do) b) be my own man c) distance myself from their short-term problems, none of which I can fix or be apart of when I live so far away.

It’s hard, though. I feel responsible to them, and for them; breaking the cord feels wrong, even more so considering I’m the youngest. Selfishly I don’t feel I should be the one to sort it all out; realistically I know it’s down to me.

And that’s the end of 2006.

Growing into him

I see him in me every day, but it’s only a fleeting, momentary whisper in the reflection in a mirror. Perhaps part of me wants to look like him – I don’t know. I had a photo taken of me yesterday and saw it this morning. It was him, standing there. His face, his stance and posture…in fact, not so much his face as his expression. And a few hours later it struck me why: that very same expression of mine was in a photo of him and Mum taken 10 years ago. 11, in fact.

Then, tonight, I told my Mum of my favourite Christmas carol, In the Bleak Midwinter. Apparently it was Dad’s too.

Sometimes I hate growing into him. Most times I love it. Tonight, and this Christmas, not having him around is hurting as much as ever.

Happy Christmas to whoever is reading, wherever you are. I hope, like my friend isn’t, you will be spending it with people you love and care for.

Who are we without memories?

If we didn’t have memories, who would we be? Would we be anything? Assuming that is the case, that just encforces the need to fill our lives with as many experiences as possible, as wildly contrasting as possible. I’m talking specifically about losing episodic memories.

I don’t know if this comes under existentionalist philosophy – not even sure what existentionalism is, either. But it’s a fascinating concept. Our very being relies on memory, history, connections with eachother. Without it, nothing would work. Emotions wouldn’t matter. But imagine how refreshing it could be personally (disasterous and traumatic for your family and friends, all of who love you; but you don’t care. You don’t know them. You’re you, and that’s all that matters).

Far far too deep and meaningful to worry about tonight. But it does raise the importance of enriching our lives. A life full of memories and our brains have so much to play with. The more we’re static – like sitting here, writing on this fucking machine – the more we waste our potential, I guess.