la petite mélancolie

fern andra, silent movie star

Although I originate from a family of depressives, I've always fiercely resisted that identity.

I was not, I was determined to believe--constitutionally depressed so much as situationally so. To that end, I've striven to live my life as such: I own I have a naturally happy disposition.

Childhood photos of me bear witness to this fact. Photos with my family often depict me as a rosy cherub, beaming at the camera. My melancholic kindred are downcast. They look away from the lens. Or regard it with sullen forbearance. Of course, my siblings regarded me as retarded. My cheerfulness clearly marked me as having a membership amongst the intellectually impoverished. 

Depressives often develop a sort of superiority complex about their mental state. It is the more ARTISTIC state of mind. It has a rich poetic tradition. It is très BOHEMIAN.  . And, if you were truly paying attention, were as acutely aware and deeply observant as they--then you too would be depressed!

There is something to that. In psychology, the concept is known as depressive realism.  In 1979 psychologists Alloy and Abramson, and in 1989 Dobson and Franche conducted two separate studies which seemed to indicate that depressed persons may have a more realistic perception of their abilities, importance in the world, and prospects in life. Which is an interesting, if depressing finding.

Although at times I've toiled like an Egyptian pyramid builder to maintain my happy outlook, often I've FAILED.  Miserably.  When I'm free-falling into the black chasm, scrabbling to get a handhold on the edge of the bottomless pit, I am apt to wonder if I've been fooling myself all along. Perhaps I am a dismal melancholic, like the rest of my dreary tribe.

Should I just be REALISTIC? And accept my fated chemical temperament?

Again and again, I conclude that it is not the case. Gothic gloom may be novel at Halloween, and titillates when one is in certain moods--but it is not my permanent address and I don't want to live there year round. Though I admire the phantastically creative Goth aesthetic, I was never tempted to adopt it as my personal style. After a while, the darkness palls and I yearn for something fresh and clear. I must wear pink, go swimming, and laugh at something hilariously witty, but not morbidly so. Thankfully, even when I've been at my most miserable, and worried to death I will be stuck in that mansion of despair forever, somehow I have always wriggled myself free. 

And again and again, I conclude that even those times when I feared I was clinically depressed, in hindsight there were ALWAYS situational components to my distress. When I figure my way out, I find that my natural happy disposition returns.  As novelist William Gibson advises, 'Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just SURROUNDED BY ASSHOLES.'   Which has often proved to be my real problem, not defective levels of serotonin or whatnot. 

Now, after years of encountering such 'situational' situations, I have a bag of tricks, a Girl Scout emergency kit in which to rescue my oft-times teetering moods.  Happiness repair has become one of my 'mad skills.'  My mental hygiene.

fern andra, silent movie star

Admittedly, this current bout of melancholia I've been faced with has been a long, dismal slog.  This time around has exasperated my can-do spirit.  My usual bag of tricks has come up empty.   After planning a magnificent year for myself--I made the now seemingly quaint intention that 2012 would be the best of my life thus far, and was even writing in a silly old gratitude journal for Pete's sake--I found myself living through the worst of years.

(At least since 2009, the year of the LANDLADY-from-Hell, but that is another story...)

I could list my tragic losses for the year, my woe log, the various sucker-punches dealt by the random and uncaring universe: but I shan't wallow.  On the other hand, mayhap I should.  I have no compunction about WALLOWING really; for wallowing (or less pejoratively, FEELING) is an essential part of the grieving process, and one must get through it to find the other side.  Too often people who are not depressed, not grieving, are quick to judge--and tell the besieged person to cheer up and forget.  But as the old Zen masters say, that which you resist, grows stronger.

We all know of poor, misbegotten individuals who are stuck fast in their depression, and they are sad cases indeed.  The wise person knows when it is time to cease grieving, when the noble wallowing process is finished, when to put a period at the end of purgatory, and start a new project.  Count me amongst the wise: I may be smacked down by life's giant fly swatter, but I am resilient.  I will come back.  The sap is rising into my poor listless limbs, giving strength to my sword arm, or in my case, my pen.  Or my keyboard.  I finally feel my old happy self returning--and I am on the march toward my GLORIOUS hopes and dreams.

And even at this late time of my life, I am still going to GET THAT PONY.

fern andra, silent movie star

Even if it is totally UNREALISTIC.