I could write a book about creativity and depression; a book without any scientific merit and limited to my own experience, which really wouldn’t make it very helpful. I am very upfront with my depression. I take pills and for the most part I manage it pretty well. there are days however, that I just plow forward regardless of the resistance. It’s not overly productive but it’s better than standing still. Someone once asked what it was like to live a life with this kind of ability. They had noticed that I tend to cut myself off from the world when I get in these fugue states, appearing to be without feeling or care. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and penned this poem.  (No I’m not a poet, but if I am to keep my depression guild card current I have to wallow publicly in angst from time to time.)

I think my gift of creativity stems from this other gift of depression. It’s not overly comfortable. But just as powered flight through the heaven’s is partly possible because of gravity and drag, my ability to think outside the box requires a me to “feel” at levels that seem counterproductive. That’s my theory anyway.

So with no further bifurcation: a poem entitled: The Feels.

When I lye down, I feel.
When I get up, I feel.
When I work hard, I feel.
When I rest, I feel
When I’m creative, I feel.
When I’m empty, I feel
When I’m with a group, I feel
When I’m alone, I feel.
When I’m at peace, I feel.
When I’m anxious, I feel.
When I’m excited, I feel.
When I’m numb, I feel.
When I’m with you, I feel.
When I isolate myself from you, I feel.
Depression is not unfeeling.
Depression is feeling EVERYTHING,
In excess.
Inescapable.
Inside.