What A Depressed Person Really Wants

Mankind was not made to sleep alone.

If only I was a lion. I would not be lying alone.

The depressed are isolated and fragile. All anyone with this condition really wants is understanding and compassion. Sometimes we feel deep depression for no reason at all. Especially women.

Women feel deeply the pain of their families. Women feel deeply the pain of the world and of course ourselves.

When there is nothing but cold and emptiness in our souls and minds, we long to be close to those who can comfort us. Often there is no one to fill this role. With the world full of numerous problems, one of the saddest is the depressed and lonely. Like a wise senior citizen spending their last years of life in run down nursing home.

What this world needs more of is just a cuddle. It has nothing to do with sex. It has to do with how beings who live in nature, huddle together to feel safe and happy.

What this world needs is more loving speech and mindful compassion for those that suffer with mental illness or those who just suffer because life is suffering, but as the Buddha said, one can not exist without the other.

Have you touched someone who needs it today?

Inside A Painting of Dante & Beatrice

 

 

Who am I kidding? Myself? I’m not writer. I feel like whiner. There are times I feel compelled to come here and throw up emotions. I”m not feeling myself lately. I think it’s the last few years before menopause. It’s also my chronic depression that I don’t know whether it comes from my head or my current situations.

I’m feeling like that thing Eddie Vedder once said about “a teacup floating in the sea.” Ever since I was child I longed for man in my life. Maybe because my Father wasn’t there. Then I acquired a step father who raised me and paid for the things I needed in life, but he went away too. Having raised me for 16 years, he married a younger woman than my mother and made a new family. Never to contact my sister and I again.

As I grew up, I was desperate to find a boy who was like me. A boy who would love me more than the popular girls. My best friend in high school was much more confident and thus prettier than I. Boys talked to me to ask me about her. So yea, now I’m 50 and I pretty much feel the same way. I don’t have girlfriends to hang out with anymore but I did grow the confidence in my 30’s. That was the prime of my life after my divorce. Although I feel now looking back, I must have created some pretty bad karma for leaving such a wonderful man and going nuts on psychiatric drugs for the first time. I was not myself when I broke up my marriage. It was post partum depression that started it all. I had been a sad girl all my life, but the natural let down of hormones after birth hit me hard for six weeks. My stupid, stupid OB GYN suggested Prozac. It was 1992. This drug was new. He was giving me an artificial chemical to counter act depression that would have eventually and organically gone away on it’s own. He told me to take these all my life?

All my life? For what? Thus, the beginning of the artificially stimulated mania. A change in my personality. But honestly it never took away the urge to find a man who would understand my darkness. It’s in the stars. I read this once in an astrology book…

 People born on April 8 may be hard for others to touch emotionally. They often seem to be quietly suffering from a private hurt which no one will ever understand. Most do not want to be reached in this area or “understood,” since their primary energy is directed outward on the world. This may make it difficult for those who want to help to have close personal relationships with April 8 people. 

This is the sickness I’m suffering from today.  I’m off those terrible anti psychotics now and I’m sadly still taking an anti depressant and I’m still fucking miserable. I think I have this old fashioned disease caused by unrequited love. It’s called Erotomania. It has nothing to do with sex, as later doctors redefined the meaning. It was also called ‘Old Maid’s Disease.’

I have had relationships in my life with real men, so maybe I’m not the text book erotomaniac, I’m just a woman who keeps losing my loves due to some mental illness.

As I type this the Fleet Foxes, come on the radio. They sing ‘Sim Sala Bim’ and I have lost my way in this essay because this music reminds me of someone who I have never met who inspires me. My youthful Davy Jones feeling. An actor whose work I greatly admire. But this is the problem. When real men leave me alone in my tea cup on the ocean, I don’t feel like I have an anchor to stay tethered to sanity. Lack of love overtakes me, so I run to my writing and I try to talk to you the reader. If there is even one reading now. And I invent someone in my head instead. They tell me I’m loved. But I’m having problems even visualizing that anymore.

I’m so love sick. I let go of one of my imaginary dream anchors, Eddie Vedder, and I had to let go of two real men that were competing for my love. Actually, only one wanted me. The other one had been with me for 13 years and could not handle my slow decline into madness aided by the hands of shrinks. He was so ready to let me go that one morning when I was having a 24 hour breakdown with no doctor due to poverty and poor health care, he didn’t call an ambulance, he called the police because the hospitals would not take me anymore. The other man tried to save me from him, and for awhile he did.

Then came the day when I was with this new man and my spiritual friendship with Eddie Vedder and the plethora of drugs I was put off and on, turned me into a witch. He actually said I was a witch. I don’t remember many of those days as drugs dumbed down my thinking and memory that it’s almost like he is lying to me. I loved him. He came 5000 miles to save me two times. I didn’t go with him.  Why? Now I want him even more and he is gone. This is suffering and attachment I long to let go of.

I know why he left. The ‘something’ didn’t want me to be with him either. I knew he needed someone better than I. I held on for a long time.  Hoping his words and proposal were real. But I must have been too much to handle. Like all the others, he left. I feel like I wanted to throw up all this unrequited love I’m feeling. I feel like I’m going to implode. I feel like I’m withering in the dirt. My love life is over. My home is Seattle is gone. I sit alone on disability in a dingy apartment complex full of misfits and drunks and people who don’t speak English or speak to me.

I feel suicidal thoughts sometimes. I know I will never do it. I have son and a grandson on the way. But is this it? Is this the end of love for me? Will I become some crazy woman who wants to join some cult like Giaus Baltar’s on Battlestar Galactica. Will my sick heart always fall for unobtainable men? I don’t want to share. I want one of my own.  I’m getting so lonely and am terrified soon I’ll be old and bent over and all the goodness that came to me in life came. But 50 feels like a stop sign.

Stop. Go no further. There is no more love for you. You are defective. Live with it.

I feel good that I stopped writing about Eddie, but I feel alone without an imaginary friend, because today the man who once asked me to marry him, put up a photo of he and his new love. He was lonely too. He deserves her.

Why does it make me feel unattractive and disgusting inside seeing him touch someone better. I don’t want to be selfish.

Something!!! Where are you? Why have you left me here to suffer alone in madness? I’m trying really hard not to invent someone new to hang onto in some other dimension maybe dreams. I don’t know. I’ve been looking for someone all my life and I refuse to believe I was mentally ill at four.

I just wish I could find someone who is not taken and wants me forever in life.

There is an asteroid headed this way on April 13th, 2029. It could destroy the Earth. Will I be alone when we burn up? Then again maybe I will escape into another dimension where the one I seek waits for me.

Until then, I’m just sad and scared.

“I’ve been afraid of changing because I have built my life around you.”

and I don’t even know who you are.

I feel like I’m in a painting of Dante and Beatrice.

He wrote:

When exactly nine years had passed since this gracious being appeared to me, as I have described, it happened that on the last day of this intervening period this marvel appeared before me again, dressed in purest white, walking between two other women of distinguished bearing, both older than herself. As they walked down the street she turned her eyes toward me where I stood in fear and trembling, and with her ineffable courtesy, which is now rewarded in eternal life, she greeted me; and such was the virtue of her greeting that I seemed to experience the height of bliss. It was exactly the ninth hour of day when she gave me her sweet greeting. As this was the first time she had ever spoken to me, I was filled with such joy that, my senses reeling, I had to withdraw from the sight of others. So I returned to the loneliness of my room and began to think about this gracious person. (La Vita Nuova III)
Whenever and wherever she appeared, in the hope of receiving her miraculous salutation I felt I had not an enemy in the world. Indeed, I glowed with a flame of charity which moved me to forgive all who had ever injured me; and if at that moment someone had asked me a question, about anything, my only reply would have been: ‘Love’, with a countenance clothed with humility. When she was on the point of bestowing her greeting, a spirit of love, destroying all the other spirits of the senses, drove away the frail spirits of vision and said: ‘Go and pay homage to your lady’; and Love himself remained in their place. Anyone wanting to behold Love could have done so then by watching the quivering of my eyes. And when this most gracious being actually bestowed the saving power of her salutation, I do not say that Love as an intermediary could dim for me such unendurable bliss but, almost by excess of sweetness, his influence was such that my body, which was then utterly given over to his governance, often moved like a heavy, inanimate object. So it is plain that in her greeting resided all my joy, which often exceeded and overflowed my capacity. (La Vita Nuova XI)

My Love For Battlestar Galactica & The Fleet Foxes

Ever heard the story about how if you watch The Wizard of Oz and start Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of The Moon at the same time, the music syncs up perfectly with the film?

Well this isn’t that.

But sometimes a song stirs me so much I have to find images of treasures I love and put them together in a cosmic soup.

I love the Fleet Foxes.

They came from Sub Pop Records in Seattle, my home. Still going strong. The Foxes have that mystic boat on waves of lyrics and melodies so fragrant that you can play it over and over again. I must do something with this song I think as I put it on repeat.

At the same time I realize the official music video is brilliant and I don’t claim to have the equipment nor the talent to pull that off.

I like the darkness the song creates, but how the sound still let’s in a bit of light. It reminded me of my fascination with Battlestar Galactica and felt the images might match the mood of the Fleet Foxes. The story of the Battlestar is very dark, but it always had characters and story that created light.

I often wish I could just write a story and not waste time making my own little films when my mind can’t find words to make up. I often don’t know if I was meant to be a writer or filmmaker. Maybe I don’t have the talent for either, but it sure feels good to have an idea in my head and watch it come to life with simple software that once upon a time did not exist.

When I finish something I started I know I’m not just a person who has been diagnosed ADD. I am also a person who could be called an Indigo child. I don’t care how good my video is, it’s more important that I finished it. And that makes my heart have hope.

I do love music and film. I almost wish I could write a rock opera. If I could, I would have Bear McCreary, who wrote the original score to Battlestar Galactica be my guide. I wish I could compose but I only played the french horn as a child and had a failed attempt at the violin.

This is my artistic outlet today. I just hope there are those who like what I do and enjoy it too. There is nothing as warm as the soup of a great song and great stories. It’s cosmic.

Namaste

Messages From Other Beings

Hello I am your narrator.  I am the something you have read about in chapter one of this blog. The writer’s protector. The being from another dimension that is assigned our writer. The closest thing she knows about us is from a movie she once saw called “Contact.”

The small child Deuphoria, from Chapter one, that once listened to my signals from another dimension is now blind in her ears and deaf in her eyes. She does not know that tiny voice inside her and the vibrations that I send her are us….sirens from some place she can not understand. She believes now these thoughts are nothing more than her mental health deteriorating in her own opinion, that came from psychiatrists.

She still seeks something.

A person.

A man she knew before she was born. It’s been a desperately sad search. Every clue leading to a dead end to this strange game she plays in her mind. The game is often controlled by us. From this side. She tries to stop it because no one will listen and she gives up like any kid in the forest playing with a friend that never comes out of hiding, or perhaps something took him. She is slowly losing the whole story. So much to tell and a dis connected brain.

But a new time has come. Too much time. Too much time alone. Be careful for what you wish for……..

No car. No lover. No friends. No novel. No Job…. unsure if she can even think correctly at all and going through menopause and living with PTSD.

She left her home in Seattle to be close to her son who will soon be a father.

She knows she cut off her heart when she left the Pacific Northwest. That place of magic, Where she would spot “him” at any time as synchronicity always works. Just as we set it up. She moved from the mid west to be near trees, to go to school, but to be near the one in her dreams. The ones we gave her. She would see “him” from time to time by accident as he was a very famous man.  Seeing him almost hurt her too much. He was playing hide and seek with her, but he was never meant to be really found.

So who was she looking for now?

No one. There is no “one” for he she despairs.  But I say unto you, there is someone else there waiting, but she will never find him in the internet or locked in a cage in a mid western town. She tries. Oh how she tries. She has finally accepted the game may be over. She doesn’t even like to read what we are writing now, which is the reason for the all errors in grammer, spelling. It comes too fast for her. We let he let go.

She misses a sort of mania for the lack of a better word. She calls it happiness not delusion. A oneness that comes to her a few times a year that sometimes scares her. A feeling that she and we all are God. What was that you told me God. Do I smoke too much cannabis to remember? Does this make any sense at all reader and who would even read this far?

She now lives 2000 miles from him. She left without our control. She does have her own free will. Which often gets her in trouble. She mis-reads messages from our side and we are working on it, but in the meantime we are worried about her hope. Our technology is very new communicating with these indigo children, even now fifty years later. The holes between dimensions are unstable and we communicate with typewriters more than actual computers. It’s new technology that retro’s the old. It helps some beings understand our attempts at communication.

Her and our passages in this blog are not always linear.  Fingertips fly forth when she is calling out to “him” as if everything she writes is a message to space and she knows it.

Our heroine notices us often through synchronicity and deja vu. Most people pass this off. She does not. But the unknown chip in her head has been damaged by anti psychotics. She now types this and is not even surprised at her own ability to remember that once during an mri the technician saw something on her scan. He would not reveal what it was. Years would go by and she would feel us turning on the chip to test it and it caused tiny electric storm at the top of her head. It never hurt because she was in denial of it being there. I think she might think more about it now since I’m getting through in her writing.

This story is being written my me, the something, I’m her protector from Chapter one, now but being channeled through Deuphoria and she now knows this. This is the reason sometimes her own writing makes no sense to her.  She believes every story she has written on here have come from somewhere else but she still refuses to remember the something.

Once, a long time ago in a journal she wrote, “I would like to live in nature and have all the time in the world to be my retreat and write.” I have given her this for ten years in the Pacific Northwest. She gazed out a immense old growth trees from her desk as she wrote a story she could not attach herself to directly. It was happening in such small segments of magic that the in between times of creativity, we lost her signals.

She has forgotten her journey now with age, with hurt from others , with following her instinct that always seemed wrong.”

I’m worried about the quest I give her as a child to find her soul friend. The other worldly game we play in this dimension to feel bodies again. She will be delivered back to us no matter what, but if Deuphoria’s quest is not fullfilled she will be compelled to return to Earth again to start the game over.

Her dynasty is not a sickness.  A non higher being called a psychiatrist gave her a diagnoses. Since 2003, the being who is channeling this doesn’t even believe this is more than a fantasy story. Childhood whims.

She thinks like a typewriter, imagines like a computer and loves like a stuffed animal. Trying to find the right words she censors herself a great deal and gives up or throws up on the page. It’s the depression. Stuck in in a belief she is her diagnoses. Taking pills to get by that drown out our signals to her. There are times when she speaks to doctors of these “gifts” and they increase chemicals in her brain to shut us down. We can’t get through. Transmission was lost in June after a barrage of anti psychotics for no reason at all would they say.

The mistake came when we thought she was ready to communicate with us on a level other than the pulsating in her ear. We scanned her several times during meditation.

We sent her an ethereal mate in a dream.

We sent her new faces that connected new synapses in her brain.

One night after she smoked cannabis she fell asleep outside in the summer warmth on her patio and we let her see our ship. She asked with her mind full of clarity one night to see a sign in the starry night sky. She watched something that looked like a star, but it moved to the left. She asked breathing deeply and clearly to move to the right, we did. We had full access to her subconscious to try to clean up what the doctors had left in her head.  We scanned her chakras for imbalance. There was an unexpected overload from neurons that could not longer fire. They could no longer fire and she began again to convince herself they were just delusions and with unjust will, a doctor committed her after going in an ambulance for an emergency female problem. They got to her while she was under sedation and ask her things about us and I. She told them without remembering and woke up in the hell that is a mental ward anywhere anytime. She lost his signal and ours again. I am surprised she has written this long.

But as she types this, she knows she exists on many levels and if you feel something from deep within your soul, it must be there for a reason. She has had so many prophetic dreams of one man in particular, that she can’t deny something is there guiding her, but the message to her always gets coated with the inability to handle loneliness, poverty, isolation and no love to guide her home, to whatever home that is we can’t tell her. He has to cooperate or the experiment does not work. For if he gives up seeking and finding someone else, he will forget his childhood plan. These are the things we cannot control. But we can help her in her writing here.

I always said I wanted all the time in the world to write, but look what I come up with? Does the above paragraph even make sense? I guess I’m just filling this blog with my thoughts because it’s too dangerous to tell a doctor. Where is Dean Radin Phd when I need him.

That just spoken were her words not mine. She does not know that I am right here.

Transmission ended.