Depression Talk

Today was moving day for me, a day that I have been looking forward to since about six months after I moved to the Big City. I chose University on a whim: I ran into an old high school teacher in the grocery store, and when he asked what I was doing with myself, I told him a combination of this and that. He smiled warmly and mentioned that he had always assumed I would go on to University.

And thus, I packed up my mother’s Saturn Vue, my little Cavalier, and drove away to study Sociology. I had with me an assortment of unfashionable clothing, a picture of Elvis Presley, my late Grandmother’s Venetian glass geese, and pictures of family members and pets from home.

I know that material possessions are not supposed to matter to us as humans; that our family, friends, and spirituality should feed us all we need in order for our souls to be full.

That is a very nice, romantic notion and all but personally, I think the person who came up with that line of thinking was on crack. And perhaps large doses of Valium.

I’m not sure if there is something extra special about my experience away at school or if I just over-react to everything that could go on in my life. I suspect that it is a combination of both. I could re-hash everything that’s gone on in the last three years, but instead I’ll sum it up with this: Brother overseas twice; living conditions that dyed my hair orange; dealing with an institution I would grow to hate; dates with individuals who not only fog your house with foul odors but who bring knitting apparel with them in case they get bored; some major health issues within the family; and of course, my personal favorite: I’m a freakin’ lunatic.

Being a lunatic is hard work, but I comfort myself with the thought that somebody needs to do it. The cosmic forces, the powers that be, God, Mother Nature, faulty brain chemicals: Blame who you will, but I have been one of the chosen many who gets to be insane. I can deal with that.

Dealing with that, however, gets tricky when it feels like all the duct tape in the world will not keep your brain properly located within your skull and like there is a snake-like creature wrapping it’s way around your intestines trying to suck the oxygen right out of your body by contracting itself around your ribcage.

The things that I moved with me in my little car, with the help of my parents that day three years ago are what brought me back to my sanity on many occasions. I make it a point to keep my home as my haven, where no bad can happen to me and where nothing icky gets in. I keep beautiful candles on the shelves, I surround myself with pictures of the people I love, I generally try to ensure that it smells nice, and I keep everything arranged in such a fashion that if a strong wind blows and something shifts out of place, I have a sixth sense that can feel it the minute I walk in.

I was discussing with a friend the fact that your whole life can be packed up into boxes and shipped from one location to another. It is odd how family members can show up at your door at nine a.m. on a Sunday bearing coffee and muscle power, and suddenly you are transformed from a city-living university student to an aspiring fruit farmer living with her parents.

My mother and I spent the whole day today creating me a new haven in a new bedroom in our family home. I lovingly unpacked and hung up my – still completely unfashionable – wardrobe. I unwrapped pictures and candles, made up my bed with my comforter and freshly washed flannel sheets. I may be one of the chosen many who has to be insane, but I am also one of the chosen few who gets to live with the luxuries I do: I now have a completely re-designed bedroom housing my clothes, my knick-knacks, my candles and pictures. I can arrange them how I want whenever I want to arrange them; the room smells fresh and warm when you walk in and the divine thickness of the blankets on the bed feel like they are calling your name and reaching longingly for you when you walk by.

I have to say that I should not really re-enforce this kind of obsessive behavior because obsessing over things is a dangerous and slippery slope. At the same time, however, I feel a strong desire to urge every person I know to make themselves their own haven where they can be safe from the world and where no evil can happen; where they are secure and surrounded by things that remind them of happiness, warmth, and shelter.