Had therapy for the first time in a month today. I really needed it. In fact, I could use three more sessions in a row just to deal with all the psychological trash and spiritual toxins that have accumulated in this tired old soul of mine lately.

I really feel like life is taking more out of me than it replaces lately. I am running a defecit of one kind or another, and I can’t feel the sunlight on my face right now.

I tell myself : There’s sunshine in my heart. It’s always there.

But I’m not there yet. Not all the way.

The sunshine goes away
and I freeze to death for another day.

And when the sun returns
My skin get warm but my frostbite burns

The empty spaces in question are the ones caused by the chemical reality of my depression. One thing all expressions of depression have in common is a sense of their being a great emptiness inside you, a screaming silence that is worse than any pain.

Because it’s not pain. It’s death. And death is terrifying.

I was trying to explain this idea to my therapist today. I am not sure I got it across. It didn’t necessarily come out in as elegant and effective form at that time. I was just bailing out my soul as fast as I could.

And while there were no big breakthrough or life transforming revelations, I am pretty sure my boat does not lie as heavy and low as it did before today.

I remember when I first started on Paxil, my first and best antidepressant, over a decade ago. At first, all it did was give me a very disconnected, numb feeling, which wasn’t very fun but was noticeably better than the maelstrom of depression that had been destroying me at the time. And that was enough to keep me taking it. Well, that, and the efficacy of the St. John’s Wort I had already been taking that got me in good enough shape to get myself a family doctor and go to him to get the Paxil.

Eventually, though, the profound numbing faded away slowly and the real effect became evident : the hole in my soul finally closed. I no longer felt like the wind blew right through me and I was absolutely helpless before the storm. I still felt empty inside, but the wound was closed and I had a tiny island of stability to stand on.

Words cannot describe how huge a difference that made. Suddenly, I could think. Really think. It was like waking up when you didn’t even know you were asleep. And all the recovery I have done since then has continued that process.

It’s just that there’s so much to do
And I’m tired of sleeping

Look at me, I’m multimedia.

Of course, there’s benefits to having so much empty space inside. It lets you handle big ideas that represent bigger pieces of the puzzle than other people can see because you have the room to house and work on the idea, and the incentive to do so because big idea can fill up those empty space, at least for a while.

Not all of my emptiness is chemical, though. A too-rapid re-uptake of serotonin explains a lot and it is the lack of serotonin in the system that it is the root cause of depression (and maybe a lot of other things too).

But I think there’s another form of blankness that has a lot more to do with the places were certain things are meant to go but never got recorded because I never had anything to record. Nothing that got through, anyhow.

So there’s the space where my social development was supposed to be. That slate is still mostly blank. I have, arguably, never learned how to make friends (I just end up with them by accident) or how to get along with people outside my small group of peers or how to deal with interpersonal politics or any of that.

And my sex/romance slate is almost entirely blank too. I’ve barely even dated. I have never actually been in a relationship. I have never been in the right position to attract a mate. When I try dating websites, other people’s profiles bore me and depress me and nobody – I mean nobody, not even creepy weirdos – responds to my profile.

The fact that I refuse to present a false “normal” picture of myself might have something to do with that. The very idea nauseates me. I absolutely refuse to pretend to me someone I am not. There’s no point in it anyway. Whoever I attract is going to have to deal with the real me, the radiant wacky genius with the gigavolt IQ and Godzilla sized personality who is also a very delicate flower that longs to bloom just for you.

Oh, and has a head full of crazy that might spill out at any moment.

But also with an enormous capacity for affection, loyalty, tenderness, kindness, and just plain lovey dovey warm gooey LOVE as well.

I have so much love to give. I could be so good for the right person. But my craziness keeps me in the dark, away from people, new people especially. And the only way to find love to his meet new people. That’s it. Keeping meeting new people till you find the one you click with, and who clicks back.

It’s mindless but it works.

Dating sites help narrow the field somewhat. They can at least help normal people find other people who work for them on paper. That can create a very handy short list.

But not me. My criterion for compatibility don’t appear on the average dating profile. Profiles don’t tell me if you are fun, or interesting, or have a lively and curious intellect. They don’t tell me what you have going on between your ears, or if you can handle a powerful love like mine.

That’s why I am so happy that me and Ross reconnected.

We’re both people who, romantically speaking, are hard to shop for.

I just hope we can make it work.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.