The Curse of Noonday's Muse: Exile on Canvas - Part II

(NOTE: Backstory, aka Part I, is the previous blog entry.)
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June 10 2010. Shelbyville, KY. 9:37 pm.

This is the real-time deal. It is not a joke.

I was hopeful this morning that after certain obligations were addressed, that opportunities would present themselves and a chance to reconcile might be proffered. It didn't happen that way, at least not all the way on its own. Undeterred, I jumped out of my comfort zone, choked back tears, and through enormous self-will and defense- swallowing asked for it anyway… only to be rebuffed in spectacularly hypocritical fashion. Which made it clear I am no longer welcome near home, even though it was my decision to leave while I worked things out... which I am doing here. But hey that’s life for you… can’t say I saw it coming directly but in hindsight I am not surprised. In fact I’m glad it’s out in the open, I can try to move on now that it’s settled.

For the record, the worst thing for someone fighting the snare, is a hypocrite. And there has long been no other thing or personality that I loathe more on this earth.

Unfortunately, I have made myself easy prey by foolishly opening up to such malevolent spirits in the past, as now. Hypocrites only ever have their own self-interest in mind. They’re the ones who say “oh, I am so sorry, I always thought something was wrong” AFTER the fan has shorted out from the shitstream. They’re the ones who won’t discuss suicides because they won’t dare acknowledge their own culpability. They’re the ones who claim to want to help, but continually redirect the blame at the already weak, and change the rules besides. They're the ones who expect payment before they'll pretend to give a shit.

But actually, this wasn’t my intended topic. Merely by way of explanation, it is why I have had to exile myself further, away from those who speak of eloquent care while rendering the hostility of insincerity.

Heed this warning: DO NOT EVER pander to a depressed individual, for the last line of the depressed is an acutely heightened sense of suspicion, which is an incredibly dangerous thing to fuck around with. If you can’t say something sincere, or have the ability to personally back it up with compassionate action, then say N O T H I N G, demand N O T H I N G, hide N O T H I N G. Anything you do or say will be used against you in the mind of the afflicted if you don’t fully back it up - the conviction will be a weight forever branded into your conscience if that person finally succumbs. And even if they don’t succumb, they will never look at you the same way, because even liars and thieves have more cred than hypocrites.

I realize what I just said might yet be contradicted by what I actually was planning to say, but… this is all live. It’s complicated. Only the uncertain future luxury of editing may allow me to clarify, but post-editing can also make one a hypocrite…

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...Continued. June 10 2010. Shelbyville, KY. 10:13 pm

Exile.

It takes many forms, but the first and most dangerous is borne of the bastard called Depression: Suicide’s front line scout, setting the tone, looking for an inroad. And while the first time it strikes when you least expect it, it always operates with cold ruthless efficiency.

It’s something like the beginning of that classic internet “End of the World” cartoon, which you should watch right now (right-click here and open in a new tab), as the visual will be pertinent. Pay specific attention to “the ozone layer leaving” right at the beginning, and note the crude but clever animation. Do this now, then come back...

Now. Imagine the same ozone animation in play, but replace the “earth” with a profile of your head. The ozone layer will look and act exactly the same – except this time it’s your mind and all its faculties for guarded rational thought and sense, giving you the finger. It does this every fucking time it sees Depression sneaking to launch its next assault, leaving you helpless and defenseless and oh by the way, chew on this middle finger....

No doubt the mind is an asshole for doing this, but that’s exactly how it happens, as it's its own defense and preservation mechanism. Because one minute everything is just fine and dandy peachy keen how it’s always been in your life. Then there’s a trigger, and you may or may not recognize it at the time – but whatever form it took, it was the infection of depression’s first assault. All out war begins inside as your mind's perception of the world seems to collapse into a voided end – in bewildering, madcap, nonsensical fashion much like the cartoon – and the wreckage of your soul is left smoldering, barely conscious, hardly alive in nuclear winter, pondering WTF just happened and how do I feel different and WHY: does everything seem so hopeless, are my former friends out to get me, am I such a failure, is there no hope for this ongoing hellacious situation, am I stuck, am I thinking like this? It is in every sense as ridiculous as Alaska floating down to Hawaii.

But I have just done a grave disservice in humorizing it thusly, because it is a grave matter of life and death. Yet very few who haven’t experienced it, will ever understand.

Depression and Suicide are inextricably linked. If a holocaust begets nuclear winter, but the world ceases to exist, does the snow continue to fall? Suicide is a way out – the ONLY way out of a formerly healthy, happy, functional mind rent into a veritable wasteland of pain, suffering, delusions, misunderstandings, and outright excruciation by depression. No human was meant to suffer this torture. Having endured both, psychological abuse is far worse than physical. Eventually your tolerance to physical pain will recalibrate in the long term, but some psyche scars never heal, and recalibrate only with deliberate focused will that lies in the realm of dangerous territory, the rare gift of survivors.

It matters not how trivial the triggers may seem to an outsider – to the afflicted, the pain and suffering are all-consuming to the point of collapse. Distractions and medications may only render temporary effects, and have the real danger of causing relapses that are even worse.

The first time is the worst because it blindsides and is unrecognized. Even worse, sometimes the first case sets in slowly enough that the mind can't flee - societal attacks and other influences endured over time wear a mind down to the point where “normal” is absolutely NOT. The catch-22 is the victim only realizes this in the exact moment they are fully depressed, and thus trapped, and having not known or realized this at any point prior, are woefully ill-equipped and unprepared to wage the fight, as at this point the mind finally sees the threat and escapes.

Drugs seem like a quick out for those who are otherwise tone-deaf to the Bitch Muse’s siren song. But they are one of her slowest-acting tricks.

The only way out is through – to master the slow, deliberate, internal strengthening process that summons the mind back from its cowardly, semi-forced exile. Focused assistance lent through friends, family, clergy and advisors can be invaluable, but is ultimately a false solution. The only weapon I have found to endure is internally forged… but a combination with external reinforcements is invaluable.
But the ultimate key to survival is this: to no longer question the slog and the self-worth of the fight. It is ever-present. Physical exile only restages the battle, although this can be useful. To simply fight the war needs to becomes instinctive, a form of developmental autoimmunity. It is the hard-learned tactic of someone who has been there, of someone who is more courageous than you can fathom, of one who is a born and made survivor… when you no longer question the whys – but just go through the routines and the fight and KNOW you have to do it and CAN tough it out. You don’t question the pain, or the suffering. You just put up with them. “Let it go, this too shall pass”.

This is an important life skill, and the rationale for enduring the battles is impossible to impart or explain to those who are new to the fight. There simply needs to be incentive, a will. It is often as intangible as it is a goal. It make sprout from an experience, or an instinct. The trick is to keep breathing long enough to find the Spark that sustains, and summons the mind back from exile.

But this is incredibly dangerous work. I have a Spark, and although I can’t quantify it, I suspect it was forged in from certain key events I experienced that seemed to tell me something mysterious. Had I not gone endured these, who knows if I would have a sustaining spark. It is the grace effort and love of many people who assisted me through the earlier times, that deserves the credit for sustaining me until I could find one of my own. But they could not do this forever. I had to find the will, and learn the courage and strength to forge it to continue on my own.

But obtaining a Spark is not the end-game. In fact, it paradoxically escalates the war because nothing makes Suicide more furious than knowing you’ve a lock, a safe haven for your own mind. A Spark is not a cure; it is a crutch, a talisman, and although immensely powerful, it is a beacon – I giant “I am HERE” sign for further attack. The only way Suicide can destroy you is if the spark goes out, and she wants this to happen.

Depression is tasked with this becomes relentless, with shock troops, guerrilla fighters, and trench brigades at its disposal. And they will hound you for your entire life, taunted by the Spark, seeking to capture and destroy it. It is your solemn duty to keep them at bay. One of the ways to do this, as I have learned over the years, is to recognize signs of the advancing horde and prepare. It’s not hard, once you know what it feels like when the mind’s self-imposed defensive Exile begins. You can feel your better cognitive arguments go, as if your brain and your self-worth have fled the Dark Muse to seek refuge, cheerfully signing out with a hi-ho-fuck-you-go.

This is really the only way to prepare, but there are two problems with this.

The first problem is that trying to reign in and announce the dread feeling of onset depression, is it’s precisely as inexact and essentially futile as predicting a tornado. Yet the parallel is resolutely perfect.

Weather warnings are all over the map: some systems are tracked, followed, and predicted days in advance, while others make their towering dread known only hours before they unleash hell. Reactive predictions related to either may prove true or false. Intensity is never known or understood until the storm has unleashed its fury, even as it may be hiding further payload. As such, tornados are ever elusive, predictable only within minutes to an exact location. A depressive incident may be as minor as an everyday summer afternoon thundershower – or it may feed, fester, and develop into a full-blown mental thunderhead replete with the psychotic majesty of an F5.

Tragically, the problem with tornadoes is they are rarely predicted in time – too often they are spotted only after the terror has begun; sufficient warning is fleeting to nonexistent and often leads to false alarm, while other warnings are known to be issued only after the funnel cloud has dissipated into sunny skies, adding grave insult to the ravaging injuries of innocent victims below.

Depression is the same way. Even when I can feel it coming, I never know how bad it will get. I am as feeble as the weatherman predicting 10-days out. Sometimes my reactive skills are up to par, and I can track the threat and thwart its wrath before anything comes to pass. Sometimes my internal storm chasers are right on the money, and even when I *am* an off-chart bastard, my mental and physical defenses keep everyone well out of harm’s way, and maybe even redirect it altogether (that’s some serious power, yo – no real tornado chaser would ever dream of such ability).
Other times, the storm dupes me. I send my chaser defenses to Colorado, and the storm fakes out and unleashes hell in Arkansas instead.

And woe, oh woe, when I ask for concern and care and remedy in advance, only to end up feeling fine. A false alarm causes undue burdens to the rest of my family, and gives the appearance of deceitful selfishness.

So I am ultimately powerless. I hope for a small storms I can control – and indeed, I have learned to control many, many of them - but I cannot yet predict them all or ensure they stay at that level. The only sure thing in any of it is that I always take the direct hit. It is the wrath of a tornado, but it never moves on – hell’s vortex just stays in place, making sure nothing is left in the void that was formerly my being as it tries to destroy the Spark. It may yet impart an unfair toll on other bystanders and victims, ravaging the geographies of familial nets, friend networks and workplace responsibilities… but no matter how severe the collateral damage (and make no mistake, such damage can be thoroughly savage, life-altering and incomprehensibly, undeservedly painful to those involved), it is centripetal – never as bad as that within ground zero at the center of the vortex. Never. There is no question. I am aware of the consequences. Unlike a tornado, I don’t dissipate into nothingness: My mind returns and says “Hey, remember me? ‘Course you do! Shoot, it’s nice and spacious in here now. Oops, fuck - now that I’m back, I guess you can look at the mess you caused while I was away. Have fun with that one, and lemme know what you figure out, m’kay?’

Look at the pain and hopelessness betrayed on the faces of freshly-minted tornado survivors. Eventually their shock will wane and they will rebuild, but it wasn't their fault.

Imagine enduring that on a routine basis… and knowing YOU are the cause, because YOU fucked up and couldn’t do enough to stop it. The pattern of loss breeds a futility of hope.

Nobody does this for fun.

N O B O D Y D O E S T H I S F O R A T T E N T I O N.

Nobody does this to the ones they love, on purpose.

It’s the tortuous slog of a lifelong war, waged by Suicide, campaigned by Depression, and who wouldn’t see the Muse as an exit, after all that?

But before an exit, there must be exile. An exiled mind must return to its Spark, always. But exile takes many other forms. And it gets more desperate as the war rages on.

And there’s still that second problem…

TO BE CONTINUED...

POSTED June 11 2010 12:26am