Hope Contagium

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

Tag: memories

My Reflection

I had lost myself. I can’t even place when or how, but I know now that I was lost. My focus had shrunk down to the size of a needle point. My ambition was flushed down the drain.

Finally a day arrived where I could pick myself up; a day of opportunity. I had been up for hours, but only spent 15 minutes preparing for the day. Ready, wearing my coat and big winter boots, I spent the next five minutes staring disappointed at my reflection in the mirror. Staring back at me was a despondent body and a colorless, discouraged face. I did try – truthfully. But the result was tiresome.

Standing, waiting, pacing and turning. Rolling my eyes in annoyance. Letting my past creep into my thoughts and haunt my conscience. Turning back time isn’t possible, I tell myself. It’s wasteful thinking about it.

On my way back home I feel like a used rag doll. The recurring memory of my reflection stiffens a frown on my face all the way home. Bashed by deceiving thoughts that crumbled my spirit I had transformed back to that little girl, blinded by fantasy, who forgot her insight.

My forehead and cheeks turn sore from the constant frown. I keep shaking my head. Hating my longing for youth and serenity, I steal a final glimpse of myself in the bus mirror before stepping outside…

Happy Moments

I know that I don’t know myself. I heard many times that the depression is not you. But then who are you? Who am I? Screaming in tears from despair seems more right to me. Tragedy is reality. As if I feel more comfortable in misery. Nobody feels that way… It can’t be true? Maybe my sorrow is just so familiar that when I fall into it I feel a certain peace. It calms you to know that everything sucks and will end up bad instead of being uncertain and hopeful in your good state of mind. It’s hard for me to think back at happy moments in my life. Partially because I’m sad things haven’t lasted and partially because I can’t remember them. I’ve had good times – of course. But does anything stand out? Levin has brought me much joy. The other day I was crying from my longing for love and affection and I asked him:
“Are you tired of comforting me?”
“No. I’m tired of you feeling bad,” he answered washing away my guilt. Later I asked him to name one, just one, who loved me for who I am. He said, “Me.” Both answers perfect and exactly what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. These were not happy moment; they were beautiful and I will cherish Levin’s words.
The next thing that pops out while I browse through my thoughts is the time I worked with children. Playing, teaching, learning with those 0-3 year olds was absolutely amazing. I love children. They do fill me with joy. But then I remember that I probably won’t know my little brother in this age I love the most and I become melancholic.
Swinging. Role-playing. Diving into my imaginary land. Some music. Films. Naruto. Clothes. All things that make me happy. Sometimes happy memories make me happy – just not right now. I’m not sad or depressed, I guess I kind of feel nothing.
Oh! Babushka and Dedushka! They also make me feel happy – but sad. For a long time I’ve felt unpleasant in happiness. I know it will end again (the happiness) so it feels fake or deceiving. Actually I kind of hate being happy – even if it’s just a little happy. But then again, are these my feelings or my depression’s? I don’t think I know who I am or how to find me.
I dreamed about being completely full of happiness because I was in my favorite town, in my favorite country. As far as I know this place doesn’t exist, but even though I was all alone I was truly joyful. Then my dream changed or I woke up. Looking back at it, the feeling and the place in my dream seem scary. As if something was not right in my brain… So I guess not even my dreams can trick me into feeling happy. Even if it felt so real for a moment.

Old Photo Albums

I wander through
Old photo albums
As if they’re graveyards
Of ribbons and stuck-out tongues,
Memories attached with
Used bubblegum.
Staring at the faces of all the
People who used to care,
I’ve never felt more alone
And if I cry it’s because you
Aren’t there
When I look around
And god it just isn’t fair.
Because, you see, I don’t
Know what I did,
Don’t know what drove you all away,
But I know that you’re what
I needed
To avoid ending up this way.
I flip through photo after photo,
Always searching for the
Same thing:
That I fit with these people,
that this person’s really me.
You all say you want to know
Where you come from,
But knowing that
The horrible little things
You hate about yourself are
Natural, passed down,
Doesn’t mean that you can change,
And even if you see the sadness coming,
You can’t always stop the pain.
Because is there a difference
Between tribal masks
And photographs,
When it’s all worship in the end?
And do the albums tell the truth
When I’ve scribbled over them in pen?

By Mo Fowler

The Prelude Pathetique

When I look back at my life, it’s not that I don’t want to see things exactly as they happened, it’s just that I prefer to remember them in an artistic way. And truthfully the lie of it all is much more honest, because, I invented it. Clinical psychology tells us arguably that trauma is the ultimate killer. Memories are not recycled like atoms, particles and quantum physics. They can be lost forever. It’s sort of like my past is an unfinished painting, and as the artist of that painting I must fill in all the ugly holes and make it beautiful again. It’s not that I’ve been dishonest. It’s just that I loath reality.

– Marry The Night (2011), Lady Gaga

Brain Scan

At the brain scan clinic (where my father took me, because he refused to pay for any treatment, before he had proof of my so called “depression”), after all the procedures, I got a heavy folder with papers on my results and recommended brain nourishment.
Now, three years later, I’m sorting through all my paper piles and rereading this brain folder. At the end of the evaluation papers (I should mention how strange and alien it is to read an objective evaluation of yourself) I read:

“Marmaladescreams, you are suffering enormously, but I am optimistic that the recommendations we discussed will be helpful. Please do not give up. Things will get better. Let me know if I can help with ECT arrangements.”

A slight burn makes its mark on my eyes. Back then, it all felt like a nightmare. Not the depression or psychosis but everything else happening around me. All the sadness and unkindness from the people around me. Reading this message reminded me of kindness – that even strangers could care. Some could see my sorrow and I’m thankful for everyone who tried to help me.

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