Hope Contagium

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

Tag: death

A Day

Another gray day making its mark on a black soul.

A gray day.
A gray mood.
A black soul.

Mediocre life.
No value.
No meaning.

Universe
Infinity
Death

La Vie

So I drank two glasses of wine at a pub while listening to a discussion on tragedy. Then made my way home. As I waited for my train I bought a McDonald’s meal. But oh so laughed the universe at me: there were no seats in the train. So I had to eat my food crouching on my knees on the train floor. After I was finished, with my very unhealthy dinner, I had to entertain myself for the rest of the way home. So I sang songs out loud in the train (but quietly so only I could really hear me). First I sang of freedom, afterwards of goodness, followed by a song of love and finally songs of death. Throughout all this, I was still desperately hoping to see this one man’s face in front of me, all the way home.
La vie… Porquoi? Je ne sais pas.

Country of Duty

The day before you are sent out is hard to describe. You don’t quite know how to feel… Fear and excitement has passed my body and still mixed emotions are left. I try to convince myself of feeling pride, but what have I accomplished yet? Nothing. Come on! You’ve been training for this moment for so long. Mentally preparing yourself without going anywhere. But imagination is not near reality…
I said my goodbyes and as the train leaves the station tears fill my eyes. I know what I’m leaving behind I may never see again. I pray for my lover, my family, and dear ones. I finally pray for myself. I can already hear the gunshots. I can already smell death. It’s time to face the battle; it is time to let go of who I thought I was. There’s no turning back now… I welcome the war.

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

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)

Therapy Journal

21:23, August 24th
This notebook is to help me in my darkest hours. I will use it to write down my confusion and pain as an attempt to alleviate that confusion and pain. Most of all I want to stop the suffering my state has caused Levin. I hope I’ve never made his heart hurt… At least now I will turn to this notebook with my dark thoughts and not him. It will be filled with my hate and sorrow and longing for death. And it better be packed with therapeutic journal-material ’cause I paid too much money for it!

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