DEPRESSION ~ Starts 2018

So, here we are again. Keeping score of the mind, tracing the lines that are invisible to the eye, but essential, just the same. They tell me I am ill.  I am quite sure that if the medicine becomes unavailable I shall probably start going down the hill much like our go-cart in White River did, in 1950-something, which the young Shangan lads built with great skill and efficiency except they did not feel the need, or perhaps did not know how to design a steering or a brake mechanism.  When it went too fast or headed for rocks or tree trunks we all jumped off the racing tree product with glee, yelling and laughing all at once.  Yelling is something I have done. Once.  I do not wish to have that happen again. "Where are you going?" He asked. "China." We are all fraught with unexpected emotions.  It is not enough that our bloodlines bleed out, but the world, all the countries of the world, have to add to the worrisome ideas and conclusions that run about...

This is looking after me phase.  Unchartered territory. Survival strategies. Actions taken:- The specialist gave new medication - long term. Therapy ~ more meaningful than before. Perhaps because I am ready or desperate or I have found a good therapist or a combination of the three.) Actions to produce joy. 1. Knitting (I know! It sounds boring, but it is surprisingly comforting making things.) 2. Crocheting (Also not boring. Making up my own patterns. Progress good.) 3. Painting and drawing. (Spending more time drawing with some success. Practice does help.)  Exploring sculpting - early stages - starting with a seahorse I bought and am now going to finish off and make more durable and beautiful. 4. Writing. (Mostly notes from my studies of  The Zohar and reading other books) 5. Watching CNN. (Contradiction on the surface. However, it helps to know the state of collective consciousness.) 6. Planning holidays/trips. 6.1. Train journey to Durban to see thr...

Quote of the Day for June 16, 2018

I don't often read fiction, which is ridiculous ; nothing is fiction.  We stick vast blocks of self into our work, but we make it more palatable for readers. And fiction  is more digestible. We don't and can't know everything and we know very little about anyone else; few of us know ourselves well enough. Tomorrow our "world" can change. What is cast in stone may crumble.  Facts are too temporary to be worth time unless one is a Malcolm Gladwell. This is the age of disconcerting news, hard to process from a distance. The clan of souls who fight dragons, and dragons are, I believe, frequent confrontations with the unthinkable or inexplicable and finding oneself at an utter loss as to how to process such mind altering encounters that rob us of cetainty and faith in the future.  It sure isn't what it used to be. However, I have been carrying this book about for a while, not reading it, just carrying it about for the sake of having it on hand when the mood...

As I said, I have been therapied out.   I have seen all manner of therapists, but I have never done regression sessions nor hypnotherapy.  I m afraid of both.  If I don't know it, I don't need to know it.  I think.  That's just me. My session ended yesterday with my therapist asking me, "Why now"  What happened?" I made the appointment two weeks ago.  I can't remember what happened or how I felt.   I admitted that I was prompted and asked to promise I would make it, so I did.  Once I made the appointment I felt grateful.  Had I not had someone that close to me insist, I would have carried on without therapy without feeling that I was doing myself a disservice.  I am a great advocate of therapy. I am of the opinion that I know everything there is to know, I am just not doing it right.  I am always right, except when I am wrong, and I am never wrong, I say, quoting an anonymous author.  So, yes. I am gratef...

I would like to say that I am back by popular demand, but I am just back.  I finally have something I am ready to write about, albeit under the new title, although I am still Sixty-six and Counting. (old title). I have been speechless.  If you go back and read the last few posts, it is obvious that I have for a long time struggled to string two words together.  Gobsmacked, mostly. Politics has become strange, CNN has changed.  Everything has changed and too fast to digest enough to consider writing.  I have buried myself in books and occupied myself with paint and brushes, finding my voice in pictures rather. To my surprise, my voice is that of a writer and my pictures are imperfect because I cannot adequately express my story.  Added to that, my mood keeps changing, which changes the picture. I have not jumped, but lunged, as if into a wave, too big to surf, feeling as though I was drowning most of the time.  I obviously was not drown...