The Narcissism of Youth

Wow. Just total wow.

I am speaking to my son tonight, pumped because I have like my 5th follower on my blog. I am thrilled beyond belief that 5 people like the way that I write. (The fact that at least two of them are friends does not kill my buzz at all!)

Son: “Mom what is a follower?”

Me: “Someone who likes my writing and is reading what I wrote.”

Son: “So basically they like me. ‘Cause  like all you write about is me; so they just like me.”

Me: “Ummmmm no I do not solely write about you. I write about other things too.”

Son: “Moooooom, what is more important than me?”

Me: (In head) Fuck Fuck Shit yeah. So despite the fact that I do write about other things, my narcissistic son believes that my entire life revolves around him. (And he is not wrong)

Beauty and The Beast

It is hard.  How do you explain to someone who’s serotonin levels don’t fluctuate. Who never have had the sense of impending doom? Who wakes in the morning and goes through their day without once wondering if they have fucked up so badly they will be without work in the morning? You cannot.  Because for someone who does not live with depression, your words may paint pictures but it cannot convey feelings.

Depression is an angry beast, insidious in how it creeps in and affects every aspect of your life.  No one wants me, no one cares, no one can understand how I feel. The abyss beneath your feet, it is real, all consuming and you spend hours tightrope walking to ensure your sanity. But you cannot explain. You cannot show.

And it feeds your bliss too. My creativity surges when I am in a depressive state. I can write poetry that makes your soul bleed, I can write prose and entice those who do not read, to devour my stories. And want more. So I crave the blackness, I crave the sleepless nights and boomerang days. I live in my head, during work hours, during down time, coming out of my fugue to care for my son. I live in a world of fantasies. And it feels good.

Not only do I live with depression, but so does my bff and her daughter.  My bff is on medication and lives a calm serene (LOL sometimes) life. She is willing to give up creativity for stability. Her daughter and myself, we are artists. Not that my bff isn’t but We Are Artists. We need to create. Via the written word, paint, media. We have words to speak and a need for the world to hear. However, our creativity is closely tied to our depression. (I have a feeling my bff’s daughter is going to disagree with me and this is because all my beliefs are based on her mom’s perception of her rather than my own as I have not spent any time with her) but anger and passion fueled by depression is addictive.

The beast is depression. The beauty is the brilliance that spills from my mind and fingers, from the paint brush on the canvass, the ability to convey my thoughts and worries. I know this is disjointed. It may not make sense but to me there is beauty in the truths I have found tonight.