I Am Both Mourning and Night, No Joy Lives Here
Creative Non-Fiction on Life with Depression
I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it, —
I’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet,
And I tip — drunken.
~~Emily Dickinson~~
Emily Dickinson reaches through time and space and whispers these words in my ear, so true and foreboding. I often feel a connection to her and now here are the words that I’ve been saying — I am both mourning and night, no joy lives here.
It’s not that I don’t want joy; I wouldn’t mind a few morsels tossed my way, but like one who’s starved herself too long, even a small scrap will make me ill. I would need it intravenously, just small drops at a time — carefully attended to ensure happiness doesn’t spill out of me too soon and upset the entire affair. There is nothing worse than being too joyful, almost as bad as being too depressed; either one ends you up in the funny farm. Best to take this little experiment slowly without mistakes.
It could be days or weeks, they say, before I will begin to notice the results. I don’t plan on giving up my mournful ways so easily. I write and write, verse after verse, sadness dripping from every line. I want to make sure that I preserve these emotions for prosperity. Who knows how this test will affect me. I might get used to those morsels of joy and petition for more.
O the…
