The Elephant in the Room

From my earliest recollections I have fought depression. As a kid I was normal. Feisty, loyal creative but at times melancholy.

 Like the tides, my depression comes in cycles. Never lasting long. Temporary but consistently returning. At times gaps between episodes could be months or even years. 

I always thought it had something to do with my "chemical make-up". Rarely related to outside forces. Internal.  Deep from within my tissues and core. Passed on to various and members of my family. A random distribution along with occasional blue eyes and freckles. Thankfully I am the only member of my immediate family to wrestle the led that occasional weights me down.  

To outsiders, I do not fit the "normal" picture of depression.  My melancholy doesn't involved crying or long renditions by Poe. As a teenager my choice of playlists were influenced by my emotions, but no more so than my peers. Instead my depression is punctuated by a flat affect. This speaks volumes in comparison to my normally extroverted self. I have always been seen as a "ring leader".  The "speaker of the house".  When I fall silent it does not go unnoticed. 

Along with my favorite mental photographs of my childhood and ripe pleasant memories, my baggage from youth finds this melancholy neatly folded and tucked away at the bottom of a secret compartment.  As an adult I unfold it and take it out from time to time. This is one of those times. Fight it as I may, the unpacking has been done and the elephant is loose in the room.

Like chipped china and wrinkled un-ironed cotton it is annoyingly present. Soiling an otherwise perfectly set table. I am unable to deny its presence. Everyone can see the elephant plain as day.  

Outside is springtime.  Life is happening all around me.  I am being called to dig in my garden and dye eggs.  But the elephant is blocking my path.  I try to sleep it away but that doesn't work.  

As I have aged I have found an undeniable correlation between the elephant and physical ailments.  The two are clearly intertwined. Though often the dilemma is like the chicken and the egg. Which comes first?  The elephant or the ailment.  Regardless I am tired of the led weighting me down.  

I have done what I can to change the chemical properties within.  I have asked my physician to help find a pharmaceutical key to unlock my happiness.  We are working to that end.  Like all chemical processes, the lock changes as I age and so the key must be reworked and recast.  Today I am in the midst of trying out keys to see which one will open the lock.  

This writing is cathartic for me.  I apologize if by reading this I have led you down an anticlimactic path.  Today the art of owning the elephant is writing selfishly for myself. I am tired of letting it wonder aimlessly throughout the space where I live.  I am calling it out and allowing it to follow me around the room. 

I am the ring leader. I need to consciously return to the me I like. The me with a sparkle in my eye and scathing sarcasm.  The me who can evoke laughter or tears from friends and strangers.  I need to own the elephant.  I need to put down the exhausting ritual of unpacking baggage and repacking it away.  Instead I need to air this baggage out.

I need to own the elephant. Let it follow me around, but remaining a step behind me.  I am in charge.  I am steering the tides that rise and fall.  I need to rewrite this history.  The elephant in the room will always be there.  It is a part of who I am.  But now I am going to work at bringing it outside with me.   I am going to take control of this bitch and teach it to sit on command.  

YMD