(thank art)

I have been depressed. For a long time now. And it ebbs and flows and I mostly know how to carry it, how to tend to it and not let it consume me. But I've had multiple episodes lately where it has been all-consuming. Or at least it has felt that way: an all-consuming feeling. 

Simultaneously a darkness in my chest and a darkness looming all around me. Like two dark pits of despair (or maybe nothingness, or maybe whatever the opposite of nothingness is, though according to my thesaurus the antonym of nothingness is existence). But when I find myself in this state, this place, what exists for me are these pits, one inside of me, and one outside of me. Like no matter what, whether I face inward or outward, a deep dark abyss is ready to swallow me whole. 

So I just stay, stuck. In bed, usually. Getting up for basic needs, sometimes. Fortunately I have a partner who will take care of our animals, take care of himself and our home and even make attempts to take care of me. And occasionally I get the dimmest spark of fuel, compelling me to step up, get up, telling myself, nearly berating myself that I’d have no choice but to step up and take care of things if my partner wasn’t here to do so. And then other times, I let my partner do all the things because… I can't move. 

The pits I find around me, inside me, might as well be the gaping mouths of roaring grizzly bears, trapping me into a frozen fetal position. But as I slowly start to thaw, I can see that the pits are not razor sharp teeth and relentless appetites eager to devour me. Instead I see that the pits are a kind of darkness so dark that my eyes can’t understand what it is that I see. They’re alluring in a way, hauntingly intoxicating, yet it’s hard to move, and even harder to think. I don’t fully understand what these pits are, or even what kind of hold they have over me, but I know something is wrong, I just can't quite articulate it. And I wonder if this is intentional. Because to name this intoxicating darkness would be to take away some of its power, and it doesn't want that. I don’t know if the pits are truly evil, but it seems that they’re really not all that good either. Or perhaps, more than anything, they are misunderstood.

When I'm not fully transfixed by the darkness, I return to my physical body, even for brief moments. Usually to find myself still in bed, still stuck. But I’ll push myself, even in the tiniest of ways, and attempt to stay present, even if that means distracting myself with mindlessness. 
Stare at the ceiling. 
Watch the fan blades spin round and round and round. 
Stay present. 
I’d listen to the soothing inhale and exhale of my dog nestled at the foot of the bed. 
He deserves better, I’d think to myself, but then find a quiet voice rush in to tell me, he’s here for you, he loves you.
And maybe I’d cry, or maybe I couldn’t -or wouldn’t let myself- not yet. 

Eventually I’d find that micromovements were possible. I’d be able to change my position, offering myself a little bit of comfort in that small way. I’d look to my nightstand and see my phone. There was a whole world in that phone, or more likely in that moment I’d be thinking- yes, plenty of distraction in there. 

So before long, I’d find myself scrolling through social media or combing through the various push notifications that had piled up. This exploration is always a bit of a dangerous dance as I might see something that gives me the tiniest spark of light or I may come across something that sends shadowy darkness around my periphery.

But whenever I do get that spark of light, no matter how small, I cling to it. And it almost always leads me down the same path out of some deep compulsory, or maybe subconscious motivation, out of a need for something much bigger than distraction: it leads me on a path to art. Sometimes, albeit rare, I'm suddenly compelled to make my own art, usually writing, and usually poetry, but most of the time, when those pits are still looming, and I’m desperately clinging to the little energy, the little spark of light that I have, I want to connect with art, need to consume it before darkness consumes me. 

So I pop in my ear buds since that is the best way to cancel out the noisy silence emitting from the still-looming pits of darkness. And I might listen to music, allowing my heartbeat to sync to the rhythm of the song, allowing the various sounds to echo and reverberate against the pits. But this time, I escaped into the fantastical world of my audiobook to find that, just like in my world, there’s despair and darkness there too… as well as strength, perseverance, friendship and hope. 

I recalled that during my earlier scrolling on social media, a friend had posted that they were reading a book, the same book that I was reading. I messaged them and we ended up talking all about it, and about other things too. We would eventually become book buddies in our own little two-person bookclub, talking almost every day that followed about where we were at, and what wild thing had just unfolded. 

So there I was, not only connecting to the art, but connecting to a fellow human, a kind soul, a friend, who was connecting to that same art. A friend who eventually told me about some of their own darkness they were carrying and how it felt really nice to connect with a friend and just talk books and life. 

And just like that, I had assembled a small but mighty team, holding up lights as, together, we stood before the pit outside of my body. Some were carrying flashlights and torches, and my friend probably didn’t even realize that the book they held in their hand was illuminating overwhelming brightness, but also, each one was emitting light right from their own bodies, from their souls. My husband, my animals, my book buddy, and even that quiet voice I had heard offer me kindness when I was shaming myself earlier. All of them… and me.  

Together, we marched through that first pit. Initial fear had me thinking maybe it was a cave and we’d all get trapped within, but I quickly learned that it was in fact a tunnel, and we’d all come out the other side. And so we did. And I found myself finally able to sit up in bed, and even though I was still struggling to fully articulate my thoughts and feelings, of what I had just gone through - what I was still going through - I found my voice. And I found my husband in the room, listening to me, my animals still offering me comfort at either the foot of the bed or with their presence of light still illuminating nearby. My book, my friend, still in the palm of my hand. My inner voice, growing louder, stronger, but just as kind and gentle. My team… still with me.

But as I turned towards the other pit of darkness, the one inside me, I knew this wasn’t the time to go through it. My team and I peeked inside, our lights flashing and bouncing off of the walls, unable to see far enough, unable to see if this was another tunnel we could walk through or a cave with no escape. And that was enough for now. Just knowing I had a team, this small team right here, plus people and souls, therapy and healing, art and life beyond this moment, just knowing I am slowly working towards making my way through that inner pit inside me, that was enough for now. 

And even if I am one day to go through that pit completely, I know that won’t make it go away. I think the darkness inside me will be with me forever in some way. Maybe it will transform, or maybe I will. Or maybe we will better understand one another someday.

When I finally got out of bed, I felt the heaviness still of that pit inside my chest. I looked down to see its darkness, but immediately, instinctually placed my hands, one on top of the other, atop my chest. And beneath my fingers and palms, I could see a soft glow of light, as if I was acknowledging it, holding it, speaking to the darkness, telling it, I know you’re hurting, I’m right here, and we’ll get through this together.

And in my unfrozen, unstuck state, I returned to my path of living, of working towards healing, of finding support in the souls around me. Of finding support through art. And I share this story because maybe it will inspire someone to create and share their art… or maybe it’ll be the art that shines a light for someone else’s darkness.

Art can help us unfreeze.
Art can help us connect.
Art can help us heal. 

Art has helped me heal in many ways, and I hope it helps you, too.