Not so long ago, when I was battling with a severe turn in my war with Clinical Depression, I wrote a post about how noone in the world is so important that they make a difference. A difference of any measure or proportion.
And if you read it,
I’m sure you wanted to tell me just how wrong I was.
But it wasn’t ME that was speaking – it was the Black Dog.
The ugly voice that seeps into my skull and winds it way through every tendril and synapse of my brain.
My Clinical Depression is a beast that has made me question the validity and purpose of Homo sapien sapien on our beautiful Blue Planet.
Our net worth.
We seem to cause so much more destruction than we do innovation, and humanity itself vipers back onto itself repeatedly to cause such misery.
In truth, it is Mankind’s (& I use this gender specific term deliberately)
that I have a problem with.
In 2014 I faced the most basal knowledge of humanity and the ultimate purpose of us being in existence. I desperately sought some minuscule grain of hope that would give me a more wondrous outlook on the future of us all.
Even the tiniest glimmer of better things ahead.
And what did I discover?
That the Hope that I desperately seek, is not in grandiose or mammoth achievement or pursuits . . . . .
. . . it is in the tiny things that we do in our every lives that make Life sing with Purpose.
The kindness, compassion and honesty that are the keystones of a “Good Person” are what create a beautiful community and a world worth living in.
It is the granny who collects rubbish in the park as she goes on her evening walk.
It is the rock star who speaks to an autistic fan with true ‘is-ness’.
It is the homeless man who adopts and cares for a stray dog.
It is the nun who uses church funds to open a home for poor & the ill.
It is the mother who who goes without new clothes for five years, so that her children can attend a better school.
It is the Wealthy man who shares all his knowledge rather than hordes it.
It is the broken & alone woman who allows her ‘best friend’ to attack her verbally, because she know that her BF is in pain and just needs to yell.
It is actually the undocumented ‘goods’ that happen every day in every corner of our world, that make Humanity and our existence real.
And it is these ‘goods’ that make life worth living and each new day worth looking forward to.
Clinical Depression steals the view we have of this possibility.
It clouds what is really in front of us and instead throws up a murky curtain, a vision, of our greatest dread. A completely false vision.
Without my medication I would not be able to push that illegitimate vision aside and see the truth.
In fact – I wouldn’t even be here.