[This originally appeared on my Facebook, and I thought it worth preserving.]
It must really suck to be my neighbor on a morning when I’m NOT overwhelmed by depression: the windows rattle with my “happy music.”
Fortunately for them, it’s rare. Even if I wake up okay, something as small as HB’s (my pet name for my life partner) leaving for work can be enough to put me in an unrecoverable tailspin.
The list of things that bring me joy and counter the tendency toward the darkness of depression has shortened dramatically over the past decade or so. Some that remain, like spending time with my kids, I only get to enjoy for short bursts, with seemingly infinite periods in between. Others, such as spending time immersed in nature, are victims of physical disability. Only my music is always there. It pulls me back from the brink. It lets loose a torrent of tears, when (hopefully controlled) catharsis what I need. It helps me forgive myself for my personal failures, which is a lot to ask of anything.
It partially fills a role for me that, for others, may be filled by religion.