Words from My Time in the Ashram

November 24, 2006

I'm in the dining hall with a lot of eople to be part of this celebration: Devi Bhava.

I'm an emotional sponge at the moment and seem to have been since September, it's something to add to my general "malaise".

What's interesting about this illness (or condition or however one describes depression) is that it's inconsistent in where it strikes.

Depression is an emotional cancer. It's difficult to detect and diagnose. It spreads.

Everyone tells you it will be fine.

It strikes different parts of the mind and body inconsistently. One day you are filled with energy and optimism. Gradually the items on the news begin to erode your shield and the body counts, the economy, the weather, even Terry Gross' current guest seems to get to you.

You're like a burnt out candle. Some people can even see the licks of smoke curling from the wick. There was once a fire an it was you.

I find it strange that I can write, drive, follow, directions, bathe, cook, wash dishes, fill the car with gas, operate an ATM, jump roe, pick out CDs and choose between KQED and KALW.

What I can't do is figure out WHY I feel broken. I feel that my precious mind that has held such amazing thoughts of love and appreciation for others cannot examine and see myself in the same light. I'm an incredible engineer of why I am ill-constructed.

I can take a vast inventory of my faults and flaws and how I'm defeated and can't dig out of the HOLE.

The HOLE means I can guarantee failure. Guaranteed. I suffer.

What kind of torture have I constructed for myself? It's neither saintly nor honorable nor productive.

But I keep on constructing.

Why?

Why is an eddying question. Yes, they are part of the river, but they are still and stagnant.

This general malaise began about 1992 or 1993. I don't remember.