The Black Goo
That’s what I call my pit of depression, the black goo. It’s as if tendrils of black, viscous material were always pulling on me, holding my legs, my feet, sometimes just the tips of my toes. I struggle upwards, always fighting the pull. It is always there, always tugging. Sometimes the grasp is tight, other times, not so much, but it is always there, reminding me all I need to do is let go, stop trying, sink down; give in.
It often starts as a physical thing. Weariness sets in and my strength wanes; the goo creeps ever higher, convincing in its argument that I need to disappear. It’s a ravenous entity and soon what little I had, now belongs to the goo.
Yes, there is the half full; yes there are mantras of gratitude worth repeating. Yes, there are just as many reasons to fight ever upwards, as there are to give up, give in and sink down. And of course, it could always be worse. It’s a choice until you choose to give in, give up and sink down. Then, climbing back out is darn near impossible.
The thought process behind; it could always be worse, baffles me. As does the statement; you have nothing to be depressed about. Seriously? What part of that declaration would make me seek the escape of my comforting, dull, dead, pit of goo? If I had nothing to be depressed about, then I would have the energy to argue my point, but alas, I don’t have the energy, nor do I care enough to debate the subject. I am depressed. Period. Leave me alone and let me be. Sometimes it’s the only available escape, and there is comfort to be found in being numb.
The thing about the black goo is that it is also a buoy of sorts, a safe place to float and dwell, it is a comforting presence; inside the black goo it doesn’t matter you are alone, it is your friend. It is the one holding your hand in the middle of the night when you need to cry and you are glad you are not inflicting your sorry self on another. The black goo won’t judge you or preach to you to be a different way, and tears are always allowed, even welcomed.
As a writer, I can find words aplenty down in the goo, and often my best work is birthed from my darkest moments spent alone, depressed. There is a brutal honesty that happens when the goo dominates your thoughts, it is a great mirror, and the fatigue it induces gives the truth of the situation more meaning. Even in the depths of numbness, emotions will arise and burst to life on the page.
Historically, I know the goo will eventually recede and I will resurface, it’s inevitable. Just like a good rainstorm, it isn’t permanent, the sun will shine again. No stress, enjoy the soft confines of stasis. Enjoy the numbness, it isn’t a chronic situation, only an acute moment in time. Relax, sink, dwell, rest. Shut it all down and recharge. Life will beckon you soon enough. Like quicksand, the harder you fight it, the deeper you go.
Float and go weightless, rise to the top without forcing it. Be real, be honest, and be real honest. Acting, pretending, and society’s need for you to, fake it till you make it, only feeds the goo and deepens the pit; adding a layer of contempt and loathing. Don’t play a part, don’t pretend; don’t feed the goo with others perceptions. This is your time to learn; be introspective; use the shiny surface of the goo as a mirror; consider that perhaps, it is you. There are big lessons to be learned during a term of imprisonment inside the goo. Give up your perceptions and pre-programmed responses. Give in, give up; submit.