I had planned to write an entry about Aniais Nin's expectation of writers to express things that non-writers cannot. She wrote about the duty of a writer to say the unsayable or the unsaid and I was initially hoping to expand on this idea with relation to my own experiences- navigating my way through a fortunately rare type of grief and hoping to express some of how I feel and think and what I have become. Then I realised I wouldn't be able to write about this hideous capability because I am struggling to keep upright and to keep moving forward. In fact I am struggling just to be normal these days.
Then the final realisation revealed itself to me tonight- of course I can write about things other people don't know about including those struggles and the sheer psychic effort necessary to stay afloat. If I am struggling at the moment I should make an effort to communicate this struggle.
I have finite cognitive capabilities. Maybe this is normal, maybe I am particularly witless or limited by poor genes or I ignored my fancy education due to bullying. Whatever the reason I am often torn by the dissonance of knowing that my intense curiosity is only matched by an awareness of the limits of my understanding.
Recently I have been unable to enjoy anything. This lack of pleasure ("anhedonia" to psychiatrists) is primarily indicative of clinical depression but also, of course, grief. It isn't persistent or even consistent and it takes hold of me only at times I have to put particular work into maintaining an even keel when I have to labour towards normality. And, my god, the effort. At times like these it takes all my reasoning to appear acceptable to others around me who rely on me and look to me. I have to be conciously aware of each sentence I say, my body language, the nuances of my communication to my colleagues, my friends, my family, my patients. I have to prioritise my energy focusing on my external life to the detriment of own joys and pleasures. There is nothing altruistic about this, I do not do this purposely for the good of others but it is simple self-preservation. As long as my shells' integrity is maintained the internal mess can reorganise, recover.
Last weekend I received a book and a record I had waited weeks to arrive from USA. I also bought a fancy new digital SLR camera as I had been suspecting for a few years that my teenage passion for photography had been reignited. Claire and I were also looking at each other in a way we hadn't for a long time, as if we were young again, and my son Tom was regularly calling my name. All was well. I should have been comfortable, maybe content, maybe even happy at times. Instead my mood was flat and I found it a great effort to become interested in anything. Anhedonia.
I am lucky in many ways, I know that I am. I do know this and regularly appreciate it. One of the many ways I am lucky is that I have an awareness that most shaded areas of my life will have light again. I know my shadows will lift and the breeze will blow away the clouds covering the sun. I will experience pleasure again.
I will read my book, the one I waited weeks for. I will have hours and hours of pleasure listening to my greatly desired Count Basie record imported from USA under strong recommendation from Jazzy John, a friend who has forgotten more about jazz than I'll ever know. I will get pleasure concentrating on technical aspects of shutter speeds and lens apertures and ISO film sensitivity of my new camera and, of course, the almost spiritual bliss I get from photographic beauty. I will look at Claire again that way. And I will get get that innate paternal thrill from hearing my son say "daddy".
So what do I do? As always with my grief I have to put the hours in. I have to navigate. So I work work work. I consider, I talk, I run, I look after myself. I put effort into enjoying my own company. I have a little bit of good gin, good coffee, good food. I prioritise strictly, I say no. I wait. I am formulaic when necessary, I improvise when necessary.
I remind myself that this is a natural long-term variation in my mood and that it will leave me soon. The occasional drudgery of simple existence can have a high psychic price of emotional exhaustion, relational distance and anhedonia. But it will pass.
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