This Time is Different
I'm afraid they're all correct. I do need professional help. Depression, bi-polar, anxiety, take your pick of pop-diagnoses – I suppose I got 'em all.
I try telling them all creative people are at least a little batshit. It comes with the territory. You are an artist as a result of being batshit first, not the other way around. Art doesn't cause crazy. Art is the result of crazy bubbling over and giving birth to (sometimes) beautiful shit.
I tell them this, but then tell them also not to worry. It's managed. Like someone with Type I diabetes, I'll have this my entire life. But, you learn to navigate the world with it, I tell them. We have our insulin pumps, too.
I've been reading a lot of Vincent Van Gogh's letters to his family lately. They were concerned about him, too. They didn't understand the weird behaviors that any artist would observe and say yeah, pretty much.
There's no freaking out when there's darkness in your head because you know that's where infinite beauty lives, too.
The darkness is a supernova. Violent. Hot. Destructive. Scary.
Just keep watching, though. Be patient.
Out of it will emerge a beautiful, twinkling star, which will assuredly take its place in a gorgeous galaxy. To be marveled at. To bring forth wonder, study, and calm for the brave traveler who dares pull over on the side of a dark road and lay supine and silent in the grass.
It's a cycle, everyone. Darkness and light take turns, don't you see? Nothing to fear, just wait. You'll see.
But this time is different.
I fear the darkness is so dark that incredible beauty may not be on the horizon. The darkness is so dark that it has crippled the mortal body and mind responsible for bringing the beauty into being.
The darkness has eclipsed all care and longing for success. This is a first.
The darkness is not new, but the apathy towards perseverance in the face of it most certainly is.
Without perseverance and eventually something pretty to show for it, I fear the darkness is fighting dirty this time. He's come back full of steroids, loaded up on bath salts, and with backup.
Like David I can swing my little sling with all my might and hit Goliath right between the eyes, just like always.
But when I haven't the strength, nor care, to muster another stone and try again, I fear I will have no choice but to lower myself to the ground and let him devour me.
This is our sad, sad culture.
Old people get too old? Off to a nursing home with you! Dogs just wanting to do what's in their nature and not be kept in cages? Off to a new owner. A family member and friend trying desperately to connect with you and just be understood? Go find some professional help.
“But I'm here if you ever need to talk.”
No you're fucking not.