It's impossible to impress on someone who has never experienced depression just what an awful, agonizing thing it is to feel ones self sliding, sliding backward into the pit, fighting and clawing every inch of the way, hoping to get enough sun, enough love, enough laughter or fun or something, anything, to check it, stop it, halt the slide, because once you fall into the pit, chances are pretty grim of a rapid escape or rescue.
And then there you are, at the bottom, crying, screaming, gibbering, and no one wants to come near the edge of the gorge to help you because they are frightened of the monster that's howling down there, frightened, and so am I; I'm frightened of the monster howling down there, even knowing the monster is me.
It's impossible for me to go anywhere on my own, and incredibly difficult to even get outside. When I do, it's to be rolled to a car, packed in like useless, outdated, scruffy luggage filled with clothing no one wants anymore, and driven to some other building. The process reverses, then repeats when it's time to put me back in my box, my cage, my trap. The trap I service and load with cream cheese bagels for the mini-mice who, through no fault of theirs, are trapped here with me, poor things.
Needed? A drive out to the site. A stroll, or even a roll, through the fallen burnished leaves. Assistance getting up to the wall, on the wall, check the direction of the breeze: help dipping the wand and wafting it around. There will be no patrons to ooh and ahh at my giant lovely bubbles, to applaud my return to my rightful post, but I will somehow, please, God, somehow, complete the cycle, bring closure to my Faire season in my own strange way. I need that, need it like breath, like life.
I am not living now. I endure. I am not enjoying this. I get no joy from it, and certainly am bringing none to anyone else. There's my task, then: figure how to bring joy despite my cramped and restless condition.
And I will. How? I don't know. But I will. I must.