A Distorted Fisheye View

A glimpse into a life with melancholia

my mental health is far from stable
it ebbs and flows and dips and crashes
all within a few hours, a few weeks, 
and with the cycle of the months.
i have no diagnosis
just self proclaimed melancholia
coupled with existential angst
and a heavy dash of hormones.
whatever my label, the reality is...
i have a hard time knowing what is real
i see the world through my perception
a distorted fisheye view
exaggerating the negative
and virtually erasing the positive –
at least when that lens is pointed inward.

i have vaguely tried counselling –
really don't want to try Zoloft.
after all, i don't want to be like my mother

but i am my mother. deeply, inextricably so.
i have her DNA
her self loathing. her wild mood swings.
her penchant for running away or
hiding under the covers.
at a young age, i learned her ways of 
relating and responding to the world – 
despite all her best intentions and 
all the valuable lessons i was explicitly taught, 
the old adage is true:
children learn what they live.

so i learned to overreact.
to talk to myself with a deeply critical voice. 
i didn't learn that the glass was half empty,
i saw that it was smashed to pieces on the floor
in a cry for attention and release. 
i learned that the world was chaotic and 
that if you got your hopes up you'd better be ready
to coax mom out of bed first. 
and i learned that the way to deal with a tormented mind
and untamed emotions was to run and hide.
she took off. she hid. but, we were lucky, 
she always came back.
and when i hear of those who don't just threaten to end it all, 
but who painfully follow through, 
my heart breaks for them and their families.
and i know how close we came. 
how close i have come. 
but she is still here. 
and so am i…

…and the fact is, i am my mother.
with her deep compassion,
her heart that always puts people before any task...
who tried to make every moment special, in big and small ways.
who uses her understanding of pain to walk deeply with others.
who taught me to sacrifice and love unconditionally. 
children learn what they live. 

so maybe i need Zoloft – just like she did.
or maybe i just need to stay on the journey of self-compassion
and a good naturopath
but i will probably always tilt towards the darker side of life.
its in my bones.
i feel its pull and hear its music
i'm more comfortable with a bittersweet symphony than an angelic choir.
but there is beauty in darkness. poetry in pain. 
sometimes even company in misery. 
i still look for glimpses of hope – even though some days i don't find them...
i wear my heart on my sleeve and my dark on the outside, 
trying to walk alongside others who are broken too.
i'm trying to learn to love the shadows, 
trying not to fill in the cracks, because wise Leonard said, 
thats how the light gets in.