One thing that the grey mist of depression does is strip away artifice and illusion, to reveal what lies beneath. What lies beneath is the ugly truth of my reality.
Late last week I wrote about being out of the grey mist, about having crossed through my latest bout of depression onto the other side. What I didn’t write about was what that really means.
It was a hard weekend. My wife and kids were out of town, having fun and adventures in the urban hellscape that is downtown Toronto. Much as I enjoy fun and adventures with them, Toronto is a no go zone, where I wouldn’t be having any fun, and would be spoiling theirs.
So, I was flying solo this weekend, with a lot of space to fill and the problem I had, the problem I always have when the grey mist departs, is that the space itself is depression.
When I was a kid my parents had a string of beautiful, hollow glass balls in the living room. They were Japanese fish net floats, or so I was told. Imagine a line of glass balls, beautiful enough to be displayed as decorations, floating across the sea.
Those fishing net floats are the happy moments which make my life livable.
The grey sea on which they float is the depression, the vast ocean of misery that is the rest of my life.
In the immediate aftermath of a depressive episode, the ocean is revealed in its vastness, its dull, cold grey sameness. Its misery. It is only with time that I can begin to focus on the beautiful points of light.
Hold fast, time will pass, and I can once again focus on the beautiful, rather than the grey.
