Thursday, September 20, 2012

Black Dog sitting on my chest

We went  to an Arts festival in a nearby town. The main streets were closed off and tents were up with vendors selling everything from glass to pottery to paintings, jewelery, and woodwork. Fine artful things, beautiful things.We walked along the first line of tents and I paused to look at a painting, then some bracelets. Every time I looked up, I was alone. When I'd look for Greg, he was usually standing 15-20 feet away, waiting. I'd join him and we'd stroll along. I would be drawn to another  booth and would look at the creations, sometimes chatting with the artist about the work, admiring it and complementing them on their collection and talent. I'd look up and around and there was Greg 20 feet away, waiting. It went on this way down one street and up another, and I got lonelier and lonelier as time went by. I tried to encourage him to look at some of the artist's wares, but he said he was just there for me. But he wasn't there for me, he was waiting there for me. For me to wander alone from booth to booth. At one point he asked if there was anything I wanted him to buy me and I said yes, I want everything; what I should have said was that I wanted his company, I wanted him with me, not waiting for me. There were hundreds of people there, music set up on every corner, cafes opened to the sidewalks, tables outside. People eating and drinking, laughing, chatting and shopping. The day was glorious and fine and I was as lonely as a body could be. Why can I not be happy with what I have? Why am I always sad and alone even when surrounded by thousands of people? We drove home with me in an angry blue funk. I went to bed and didn't get up until the next day.

This is what depression does.