This round of depression feels old hat. Again, I catastrophize; again, I alienate; again, I sprint and tire between a laudable ego and obscene self-loathing. If there's nothing new under the sun, then this depressive episode will die of exposure.
I've tried some of my usual methods. I've had some meetings with a counsellor and I take some medication; I've reviewed the following extended metaphor...
...Heck, I've even (arguably) tried a little bit of sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll. But despite the fact that I'd like to think I'm climbing out slowly and steadily, I can't fully convince myself that that's the case.
I saw the following link on my Twitter feed this morning:
And Popova summarizes,
Long before modern psychologists extolled the creative benefits of melancholy, Rilke explores the value of sadness as a clarifying force for our own interior lives.
Ah, Rilke. Perhaps you're just what I need right now. It might be time to crack open The Book of Hours again, perhaps for the first time in a decade.
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