Friday, September 9, 2011

to Battle

I find it intriguing that when one talks about depression it is usually accompanied by the word 'battle'.
'I battle depression'

That is what it is - a constant fight.  Taking up arms to wage war against ones inner self. 

The hardest thing to do, is to explain to someone, who has never had to 'battle' despairing emotions, what it is to feel depressed. 

'You have it so good Rachel - you are blessed with love and family, a roof over your head.... what on earth would make you depressed???'
WOW - Its like I do not know how good I have it... Like I am an idiot or something. 
Depression does not just plague stupid people you know!
And this is why it is called a BATTLE.
I know what I have! Oh I know, I know, I know!!!  And I fight so hard for all these things. 
I wage war against my self to some how stave off the internal vacuum threatening to pull me down into despair. 

I hold onto my faith and I fight! oh how I fight!
But like any battle, it plays havoc on my strength,
for blood and sweat there is tears and rage, frustration and anger.
At times I get so tired and mad that I have to wage this war. 
My energy is spent - my sword is to heavy and my shield so cracked. 
I just want to lay down and let go. 
Then I get mad that I can't give up!
I have no strength and yet I am strong because I do not quit. 
I am so weak and yet not weak enough to let go. 
How can I give up? 
I fight for me, and thus I fight for my family.
But they do not truly see how I battle - no body does.
People need to think more on the word 'battle' when considering depression.
 - a hostile encounter or engagement between opposing military forces
- a fight between two ...
- any conflict or struggle
- to work very hard or struggle

The Prisoner

This Poem by Emily Bronte has captured me.
In the most poetic way I can put it - I love it! It speaks to me.
Emily Bronte 1818-1884
The Prisoner
Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear
Year after year in gloom and desolate despair;
A messenger of Hope comes every night to me,
And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs,
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars:
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire,
And vision rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
Desire for nothing known in my maturer years,
When joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears:
When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm,
I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.
But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends;
The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends.
Mute music soothes my breast--unutter'd harmony
That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals;
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels;
Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found,
Measuring the gulf, its stoops, and dares the final bound.
O dreadful in the check--intense the agony--
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see;
When the pulse begins to throb--the brain to think again--
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less;
The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless;
And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine,
If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.