Newsletter #119
I’m not going to lie: it’s been a rough week, not so much for me personally but for people about whom I care very deeply. One of my closest friends, someone very much a brother to me, lost their mother. I knew her well, too, and grieve her loss, but in no measurable way would I suggest that our grief is comparable. I grieve as much for him and the loss he endures as I do for her. Ultimately, sorrow is the exclusive burden to those left behind; when I see people trudging through that bog, I wish more than anything that I could lift them up and carry them, even if just for a little, so they can rest. All I can really do, though, is what I always do. I write my stories and poems and draw my pictures and speak my thoughts and hope the people who find these things are the people who need them.
I’ve made it no secret here that, at the best of times, I struggle with depression, and for most of my life avoided talking about it. When there’s grief all around me and I want to be at my best for the people who need, I frequently struggle, and feel I come up short. Most of that is expecting too much of myself, but some of it is expecting too little. For me, often, pushing back against an incoming depressive episode is as simple as making a choice to do those life-affirming things that bring me pleasure. Admittedly, this is easier said than done when anhedonia rears its ugly head. When I’m down, I’m very good at convincing myself that I won’t enjoy this, that, or the other, so why bother?
Always bother.
Jump in the pool. Jump out of the plane. Eat the cookie. Watch the movie. Play the game. Read the book.
Do the things that make you who you are.
It doesn’t have to be anything big; I’m not jumping out of a plane, after all, because I’m not insane.
I’m doing something a little cozier, and starting with a smaller step, something a little more my speed; I finally pulled the metaphorical trigger on Stephen Erickson’s Malazan Book of the Fallen, a dense fantasy represented by a main series of ten books that each clock in around a thousand pages. I may have a cookie while I read. Or several.
Most importantly, I’m going to be grateful that stories exist. And cookies. I’m going to read an epic adventure across ten thousand pages that - at its core and despite all its fantastic elements - is about the human heart at conflict with itself. I’m going to read about bonds, about families and fellowships forged in dire circumstance, and I’m going to be grateful that I have all of you, friends, family, and readers alike. Finally, I’ll feel strong again, and happy to carry any (and all) of you - hopefully - with these meager words.
Wado!