the recovery

i recall, many years ago when i was still in college, my psychiatry professor discussing about depression. he said, we all suffer from some form of depression at some point in our lives, however, what makes our occasional sadness or mood swings different from pathologic depression is that the latter interferes with normal daily life. he said this would a commanding tone to his voice, something that immediately made the entire class quiet to a faint hush, after which, he shifted to his usual crazed antics by demonstrating the weird behaviors of patients suffering from schizophrenia.

i sometimes wonder, it must be a blessing to be gifted with a will like mine. it's almost a sort of inner stubborness i have developed, set to ward off thoughts and ill-conceptions that have frequented my troubled mine through many years. i have never really realized it, until just recently how fortunate i am to have one, since, it would have been just too easy for me to succumb... if i had allowed myself to.

pathologic depression, like what a friend of mine is currently going through, would have her lie sleepless at night, her mind racing in the dark, bombarding her with thoughts upon thoughts, fears and demons and random ramblings, she, incapable of silencing them herself without the help of a sedative. waking up in the morning is hard to do as well. your entire world seem to be imploding and there is no way out. either you cant find it, or you won't take it. its a horrible feeling, trapped within an invisible cage, drowning in a soup of chaos while lost in a world of normalcy. you perceive malevolent undertones in peoples voices, a superimposed hatred in all their good intentions, slowly, steadily, weighing you down as you struggle to move on from day to day....

i find myself waking up not wanting to, ironically, an inner emptiness keeps me heavy. but then, my force of habit kicks in, and i prop myself up, because that is what i do every morning. grim thoughts zip through my head many times, how my life feels meaningless and how it bores me, then, i think of all the things i would leave behind and worry, who will finish them. more so, it irks me that i would have to trouble people to finish what i had started. my sense of duty to my job wins every time. i can't even consider suicide. i am a coward in that respect. then the overwhelming melancholy engulfs me. this, by far is the hardest to overcome. compacted, almost solid, i push through this wall, just hoping to get through to the other side. funny how extreme sadness changes how the world looks. everything looks like they are coated with a glaze, shiny and bright, pleasant as it may seem, the glaze also emphasizes all its imperfections, and you see crack and fissures. flaws in their characters. it cuts and it bruises, and in your already weakened state, you prepare to give up. then i remember the pain i have when i run marathons. i remember the excruciating spasm and cramps i would have, as if bone is breaking, as if muscles is being ripped from my leg, and yet, i still force myself to limp forward, taking occasional walking breaks, just so that i can cross the finish line, even in the least definition of running.

trudging through this wall is a marathon of my soul. i am limping. i am cramping. i am seizing in pain. but i am still trudging, because stopping and giving up doesnt seem to be an option i consider, because, i am blessed to be stubborn that way.

thank you my Lord. thank you very very very much.