I Am Both Mourning and Night, No Joy Lives Here
Creative Non-Fiction on Life with Depression
I can wade grief, Whole pools of it, — I’m used to that. But the least push of joy Breaks up my feet, And I tip — drunken. ~~Emily Dickinson~~
Emily Dickinson reaches through time and space and whispers these words in my ear, so true and foreboding. I often feel a connection to her and now here are the words that I’ve been saying — I am both mourning and night, no joy lives here. It’s not that I don’t want joy; I wouldn’t mind a few morsels tossed my way, but like one who’s starved herself too long, even a small scrap will make me ill. I would need it intravenously, just small drops at a time — carefully attended to ensure happiness doesn’t spill out of me too soon and upset the entire affair. There is nothing worse than being too joyful, almost as bad as being too depressed; either one ends you up in the funny farm. Best to take this little experiment slowly without mistakes. It could be days or weeks, they say, before I will begin to notice the results. I don’t plan on giving up my mournful ways so easily. I write and write, verse after verse, sadness dripping from every line. I want to make sure that I preserve these emotions for prosperity. Who knows how this test will affect me. I might get used to those morsels of joy and petition for more. O the insanity of it all! Why must I change? Why should I give up these woeful ways? Make it stop! Please no more. But you just add another bag, pat me on the hand, and leave. Euphoria takes over and I am basking in the sun, drinking a Mai Tai and laughing at some lame guy’s jokes. This continues for an entire evening and then I crash on the beach to the sound of the waves, only to wake up the next morning back in my hospital room scratching my head. Did any of it happen? Is this what I am to expect? Surely there’s more to bliss than this… All I see is hype and make-believe, false smiles, and debauchery. If this was meant to be the seller’s proof, I’d rather have my tears. Yes, that might have appealed to a lessor lot, but for me, it’s made me realize what I’ve got. So I rip off the needle and tubing, remove my gown and put back on my cloak, look both ways at the door and then slip down the hall and out the exit. To say I’ve learned a lesson is beyond words. The next time I want a little joy, I will just snuggle up to my dog.
©2020 Lori Carlson. All Rights Reserved.
Lori Carlson writes poetry, fiction, articles and personal essays. Most of her topics are centered around Relationships, Spirituality, Life Lessons, Mental Health, and the LGBTQ+ community. She currently writes for Loose Words,💜POM💜 , Illumination, The Friday Fix, House of Haiku, Know Thyself, Heal Thyself, The Purple Pen, Blue Insights, a Few Words and Invisible Illness
