Today I’m at the tail end of the depressive episode. Isn’t it funny how they say “episode”? Like it’s a network TV series with a plucky heroine or maybe a gruesome murder to be solved in forty eight minutes (to account for commercial breaks).
Oh, did you see the one where she took all her pillows into the closet to sleep because it seemed comfortable? What about the one where she didn’t shower for three days? Oh my God, and I can’t believe she wouldn’t tell her mother! I mean, the poor woman!
The show would superimpose my mother watering tomato plants on a Brooklyn fire escape over me mournfully ripping leaves off my basil plant. It would be a great example of showing, not telling. I wonder who’d play me. I vote for that girl from Juno. She handles difficult subject matter with comedy. She could carry it through one, maybe two seasons. Then there’d be a series finale, and maybe I’d get married or buy an exotic plant nursery or move to China.
Then there’s the war language. I am “battling” depression. I can “beat” it. I imagine an awesome gladiator scene, with sweating pecs and cartoon blood everywhere. I imagine mythic monsters, Shelob, or a hydra, or even a giant slug with venomous pus sockets. Epic. Saga-worthy. With swords that have names longer than the owners and beautiful maidens to be rescued. The monsters are hideous. Some simply malevolent, some possibly wise. The heroines have revealing clothing and perfect thighs.
My depression is like battling mud. It’s not even sentient. Struggling with it is like wrestling yourself in a a backyard mud-pit, with spit and dog shit mixed in. It’s not pretty, nobody cheers you on, and after a couple of days of this when you stand up triumphantly and proclaim something like, “Behold! I have made my bed! Forsooth!” you look around and people nod and want to be elsewhere.
I’ve heard recently, though, about Norwegian experimental cinema. Filming a single train ride, outside of the the window, just as it happens. Filming an apple, growing, for hours, no time-lapse. Filming the sky. No plot, no character development, no deep existential meaning. I wish somebody filmed that TV-show about me. I’d star in it. I might even make my bed.