To be, or not to be...
***Warning: Not a Happy Post - You have been warned!***
The other night I received an email from a girlfriend who is suffering from a recurring bout of depression, and essentially, a generally malaise about her life at the moment. When one sees, or hears of, a friend in pain, it is one's first reaction to try and provide some sort of consolation to them. But as I read her email, it resonated all too much with how I have been feeling of late. How does one give advice to cheer up a friend, when one's own reserves of cheeriness are depleted? I fear I didn't give her positive words, but maybe, just a rehashing of my problems that mirror her own. When one is feeling down and morose, thoughts turn inward and my selfishness comes to the fore.
My thoughts, which were similar to hers, were simple. Why does noone seem to want the love that I have to give? I know I can love completely, but why does the universe seem immune to giving the chance to prove this? I can be witty, and interesting, and sexy, and many other things beside, that surely would count in my favour as a "catch". But no. I am not. I remain uncaught. I have complained in the past that I felt that I was destined to be one of "those" women. The ones that noone can understand why they are alone, but they are. They spend their lives in solitude, citing reasons of career, or dissatisfaction with the people around them. But deep down, they know that maybe the reasons are maybe just themselves.
Therapy sessions, anti-depressants, Bush flower remedies, homeopathic consultations, hobbies, internet dating, speed dating, blind dating, gyms, dancing, work.... All these things and more I have tried in vain to alleviate the pain and emptiness that follows me constantly. What more can I do? Nothing I fear. I want to go off the anti-depressants, only because it seems they are doing little, so I may as well feel worse and be unmedicated, with the hope that one day I will feel better. And if I don't feel better? Then maybe it is time for other measures.
A while ago, a friend stated that he felt that the age of 30 was enough for him. I think he felt that no more was to be gained in living longer than this, especially if it meant living alone. At the time, I berated him for feeling this way. He is a wonderful person, and I couldn't imagine him being alone for the rest of his life. It seemed so silly for him to declare 30 the end of a useful life. But as I stare down another up-coming birthday, I must admit, that I too can feel no point in it. Another birthday, another reminder that youth is behind me, and more and more opportunities have closed for me. As so many of my friends around me are moving forward happily, with relationships, or with careers, I feel less and less joy in the things around me.
How many more movies and operas can I see to fill up empty hours? How many more books can I read and discuss to find some purpose in the next day? And that, my friends, is the point. I don't know any more. Another year lies ahead of me with choral concerts, tap shows, books to be read, operas to see and work to be done. And I don't care.
I need a reason to continue, and I know that this reason has to come from within me. But within me is a void, capable only of the barest functionality as a person. I need to be needed and wanted to want to go on. I want to be the one true love for someone. If I wasn't around, I know that people would go on - noone is indispensable.
To die, to sleep —
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.