Moments of insanity

Sometimes I miss my "depression". There. I said it.

As I shared my prayer request at Bible study last night, I heard words being spoken by my own mouth so foreign-sounding to my own ears. I have been feeling like I have the flu for the past few days. Physically ill. Limited. Restricted. Painful. Off-kilter. Not right. Not myself. I shared that this is exactly how I felt mentally when I was in my post-baby PPD stage of life. And the physical illness was mimicking the mental illness I found so frustrating and crippling.

It's one of those, "miss it like a cavity" kind of phantom pains. I think I needed to "feel" it once more to remember to revel in how wonderful health feels now.

At the same time, I miss the creativity my brain was able to tap into while it was misfiring, short circuiting and traveling routes it was not deigned to traverse. For some reason during that time, words flowed like molten chocolate. Thick. Smooth. Gentle. Gooey. Sticky and sweet.

Now I feel like when I write, it's back to the old me. Technical. Bullet points. Factual. Lists.

I miss the exotic tangents my mind wandered on. The vocab words my muddled mind was recalling. The explicit ways I was able to describe abstract thoughts and feelings. My fingers not typing fast enough to keep up with my speed of light thoughts.

Now I stop and pause to think of a word. I know it's in there, but I can't think of just the right one. I try to describe an experience or emotion and I come up sounding like a nervous sixth grader trying to ask a parent for permission to go bowling in mixed company. I'm distracted by my focus.

I look at the beautiful fall palette and am moved by the panoramic melange of colors and all I can think is "awesome".

It's given me a new insight into the struggle many genius artists have struggled with--like in the song "Starry, Starry Night" about Van Gogh. Balancing sanity with genius to create. The writer that sits in front of the typewriter not able to tap a key because you can't turn "it" on and off like the water taps at the sink. The musician that pounds his fists on his instrument in pure frustration that he can hear the melody but can't translate it into notes. And on a much, much lower level than them, I ache in frustration with them at the paralysis.

I don't miss viewing my world in shades of grey. I don't miss looking at photographs and not remembering the context or the experience, or the foggy look in my eyes. I don't miss the paranoia, the robotic gestures of living day to day. But I do miss that one side-effect. Sometimes.