Interesting "Gift"

So this big but thinnish box was delivered not too long ago from Allposter.com. Didn't think too much about it because we've ordered from them before and we each figured it was probably something the other had done or maybe one of the kids had sent it. Besides we had a few problems like the ice storm and no electricity and stuff like that.

So Christmas morning we finally figured out we needed to investigate. So we opened it and inside this bubble wrap is a painting on canvas. We can tell it is an image of a couple of nude ladies but it is hard to see through the bubble wrap. We finally decided we had not ordered the thing and we didn't want to unwrap it.

We proceeded to hunt the painting on Allposters.com site. We searched for every term we could conceive. We found nothing. So finally I had to peel some of the wrap back and then I looked like I was on CSI. I had my flashlight and would have had my magnifying glass except I couldn't find it. I finally was able to read part of a name of the artist.

Here's the painting:



Turns out it is a reproduction of a painting by Franchois Boucher of Diana Resting After Her Bath (or one of several similar titles).

It was quite expensive so we figured someone was supposed to get this for Christmas. It definitely wasn't us.

This was the only Christmas happiness I really felt. Otherwise Christmas was a total depressing nightmare as far as I am concerned and I am glad it is gone.

I have not been so depressed in a very long while. I entered the dark place the day before and I'm pretty much still there except that I can sense the light is coming. I can't really see it yet but I can just barely feel it. So I know it is not long and I will be back outside.

I talk about it as a place. It seems like a place to me. It is black and I cannot see. I can't find anyone to help me. I have some room so I can move but not very much and soon I touch the surfaces that confine me. They are there but otherwise they do not feel like anything. They are not cold nor or they hot. They are not sharp nor or they dull. They are just there and beyond them I cannot go. If a happy thought arises then it is quenched violently and suddenly. There is no color. There is guilt and failure and fear and absurdity and repetitive trying over and over again. Yet, it is not particularly painful in here. It is more nothing than anything else. A place with no hope and no escape and no future. Sleep is a good thing to do when I'm in here except that there are dreams. It is an isolated place. I can sense others out there but I cannot reach them and they cannot reach me. That's what it is like on the inside.

On the outside I think I still look like myself. But I must look sad. Because I was asked if I were sad. I didn't want to answer but I told the truth. And then people want to try to do something to make you feel better and all that does is make you feel worse. Because if I could snap out of it I would. Food is apparently a remedy in many minds because they want to feed you. They want to know why you are sad. And I don't know why. And I don't want to talk about it.

Today, the day after, people ask "Did you have a good Christmas?" and I am honest for a while. But then I finally give up and just lie. "Oh yeah it was a great Christmas." It is a bit of a damper if you say I was depressed to beat hell.

Therapists say you should express your feelings. But you do it and you find out no one really wants that. People prefer the happy, have-it-all-together, optimistic, courageous, can-do person over the frail, failing, pessimistic, barely-holding-on person. There are two persons with whom one may honestly share thoughts. Some would say three: me, myself, and I. But there are two and me is one. The other is Jesus.

I feel like I don't have a family of my own anymore. I remember dad saying this and how it hurt my feelings at the time. I will not say that to my children or my brother or my wife because of that memory. But I know the feeling. It is a sad feeling.

It doesn't really help to listen to other people talk about Christmases past and who did this and who did that and you have no idea who any of these people are. And different dishes only serve to recall others no longer cooked and no longer remembered.

I know I am emerging from the shadows or should I say into them because I can write about the experience now. When I am at the bottom of the well of despair I cannot write or talk or do anything. So I must be emerging or I could not be writing.

I have wondered before if the dark place is actually a safe place. It doesn't seem safe when I'm there. But when I think more about it then I think it may be a safe place in fact. Like a circuit breaker maybe. The emotion becomes so strong that the breaker throws just like with electricity. Isolation goes both ways. It protects as much as it hurts.

There will be fence mending when I am back outside. I hope there is forgiveness.