“If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill.” 
― Rumi

When I began this blog, I didn’t think I’d need a fancy Mission Statement.

Self-Help Whisperer = talks about self-help. Maybe knows a thing or two.

Therefore, I have been talking about books, mostly, and movies, websites, music, other blogs and personal experiences.

If you’ve been around since the beginning, which is only about six (or so) months ago, then you know I am a creator/destroyer… especially of blogs. The reason for this has always been clear to me: I got bored. I mean, with my own stories. Plus, I’m ADHD. And anxious. This makes me a whirling dervish on the inside… and I kinda just spin myself away from the whole blog thing.

I thought I was pretty clever this time. I reasoned, with all these books, I would never “finish” my quest to build a self-help community with lots of personal stories.

I have many books yet to go.

And I’m bored.

Why?

That is the question.

And for once, I actually have the answer.

I’m not bored. I’m depressed.

Depression lies. It tells you that nobody cares. Nobody’s listening. You are alone. You suck at your job and at your life. Basically, you just suck in every way. It covers your head like a shroud and (try as you might) you can’t remove it. It’s like my transitions glasses that automatically get dark when you go outside. Depression just automatically does its thing and you don’t really notice until you look in the rear view mirror. There’s probably some deep meaning behind the rear view mirror thing, but I’m too tired to think about it right now.

The whole reason I have all these self-help books is because I was always searching for a cure for my madness, although it didn’t have a name until adulthood… and not until my late 30’s, at that.

I have depression. Sometimes, it’s a Major Depressive Episode. You know, with capital letters. So, I take my medication and am usually able to stave it off.

Until I’m not.

One of my most redeeming qualities (I think) is my authenticity and honesty. I can’t just come here and write like there’s nothing wrong because it doesn’t feel right.

Plus, I’m sure there are others who go through this as I do.

Just to be clear, it’s everything I can do not to erase this entire blog and go hide in a cave, at least until Spring.

But I won’t. I will get through this (whatever level episode this is) and call it what it is: a monster. With gnarly teeth and a nasty growl.

And then I read something like this:

“It’s not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.”  ― Stephen Fry

The man is a genius. Today, I am just unmade.