Hope Contagium

A therapy journal of self-obsession, depression and meaning.

Close Your Eyes

You’re desperate; desperate for so many things you are too lazy to even try to accomplish. You give up before beginning. You can’t even remember why you are so desperate. The only thing you see is this black hole you find yourself in. You eat to feel better; hoping the short vague pleasure will help; it only makes you feel worse.
Put on Tchaikovsky and let his creative tunes caress your mind. The music shows you old fairy tales and you taste Russian greatness. Slow beauty, steady accumulation, the echo of careful bells, sharp outbursts, and playful sounds turn into powerful roars. When you hear the choir of little boys sing you imagine such simplified glory. Their song makes you feel loved. You remember when you were happy. Finally the music allows you to disappear.
Just close your eyes.

Intimacy

Once in a while I remember her soft skin and our kisses. It’s a secret though, because it’s all in the past. It was a different intimacy than I’ve ever experienced with any other – with any men. It was so gentle and equal. Even if we fought like no other, were confused about it all, were frustrated and inexperienced, it was still special. Because it was so different, foreign, and new to us both. It built up from somewhere unknown – that was the beauty. Neither of us knew what we were doing. So many tears were spilled, so much spite thrown at the other… I still feel the specks of passion in us and the sense of affection towards her. I still look at her with curiosity and see her wonder.
Longing for a better ending, for a better now, frightful of our lost future, I do accept the turn of events. The whole memory is unclear; I’ve forgotten all the whys, hows, and whos. But I clearly remember that soft skin and her kiss.

Falling Over

I remember during depression how, after an attempt of getting up from the bed, I landed in awkward and uncomfortable positions. Because I didn’t have enough energy to simply shift my position, instead I just collapsed. I remember a certain amount of stubbornness and tenacious patience in me connected to these collapses. I was stubborn in my despondency and patient because of my endurance of the gradual pain growing in me from the position my body had landed in. I just hoped and waited for help to come…

Virginia Woolf’s Depression

If left to herself, she would have eaten nothing at all and would have gradually starved to death. It was extraordinarily difficult ever to get her to eat enough to keep her strong and well. Pervading her insanity generally there was always a sense of some guilt, the origin and exact nature of which I could never discover; but it was attached in some peculiar way particularly to food and eating. In the early acute, suicidal stage of the depression, she would sit for hours overwhelmed with hopeless melancholia, silent, making no response to anything said to her. When the time for a meal came, she would pay no attention whatsoever to the plate of food put before her. I could usually induce her to eat a certain amount, but it was a terrible process. Every meal took an hour or two; I had to sit by her side, put a spoon or fork in her hand, and every now and again ask her very quietly to eat and at the same time touch her arm or hand. Every five minutes or so she might automatically eat a spoonful.

 – A description of Virginia Woolf’s depression, from Leonard Woolf’s diary (Virginia Woolf: 1882-1941)
With gratitude to The Noonday Demon by Andrew Solomon

So Horribly Banal

Looking forward, life seems so long and unattainable. I still feel so lost. But I saw joy in rising tired from the bed and taking something given to me by my love, my best friend. It was the most meaningless action without thought or achievement. So horribly banal. Though when it happened, I felt happiness once again today. With him I believe in a heaven and I imagine I’m there. The love I always seek is right in front of me. We run to each other, we embrace each other, he swings me around. We laugh alone and together, we hold each other, we feel safe together. I even sing him love songs…
It’s the familiarity and our combined everyday that’s so magical. How our unoriginal boredom actually is pleasure and special moments. Doing nothing of any importance, as long as we do it together. Growing together. Being together. Even if we’re not lovers, we are friends, and I want to grow old with him in any way. This is our love.
I always thought if I had real love than everything would be okay. It’s a lie, but true at the same time.
Yet life seems so long and unmanageable.

No Escape

I dreamed that my friend took me to see a therapist. He wanted me to talk to someone about my pain. He wanted to get me help. When I asked why he did this, he started crying and saying he couldn’t bear helping me anymore. It was too tough on him.
What was worse, is, that the guy I’m dating was with us. He had to sit through the session and listen to all my secrets. He had to know what a mess I was and how I burdened others with my being.
Even in sleep, where you might think you’ll find peace, you can’t run away from yourself. I think my friend in the dream symbolized Levin. The fact that my date was there probably means that I’m scared of showing him what I’ve been through. Who I once was. I’m not even that depressed anymore and I don’t lean on Levin as much as I used to. But my dreams won’t let me forget my past and what I have done. The strange thing is that I felt closer to my date after this dream. I felt more secure. Which is silly, since none of it really happened…

Trying

There are so many things I ought to do. So many obligations. So much work. All to become a better person and to help myself. Why does it all seem so impossible? Is it still depression holding me back? Am I purposely against my own well-being? All this anger, disappointment and annoyance – all of it towards myself. When will I let it all go?
I’ll try once again this week, I’ll try harder than before. I’m not only going to survive, I’m going to live how I want to. And maybe I’ll finally stop crying.

Nothing but Flowers

I Felt a Funeral, In My Brain, (340)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum –
Kept beating – beating – till I thought
My Mind was going numb

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space – began to toll,

As if the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And, I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down –
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –

 By Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Memories

I remember crying and cutting myself. I remember sobbing and muffling my screams with my pillow – I was yelling from the damn pain in my chest. I remember crying and beating another person, letting all my frustrations out on him. Then I crushed someone with hateful words only to let my anger out and even affecting her nightly dreams. Finally I choked a friend out of vengeance towards the life I had, the people around me and, and all terrible things in this world that had nothing to do with me. And I don’t know who I am. I’m just still crying. I’m so tired of thinking, writing and pretending to be someone.
I wish everything went dark, slowly and beautifully.
Today I tried to deafen my mind from my thoughts. I curled myself up in our small bathtub and drowned myself in self-hatred. I tried numbing my emotions by turning the water as hot as possible. But the water eventually turns cold and you have to face the fact, that you have to get out of the tub, and face the world again. For the 700th time you have to start over.

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