But then, I think, Picasso was Spanish and had a Blue Period, so I am also inclined to have mopey days.
Even in Spain.
My mopey days feel a bit like one of those lead apron you wear when getting x-rays at the dentist. The moment clings, and all movement ceases. I don’t want to leave the house or practice my Spanish or cook dinner or practice any of the basic self-care that would change my circumstances.
You see, depression (even my fairly mild form) lies. It steals joy. It hisses in your ear.
And I hate it. JK Rowling brilliantly describes depression in the Harry Potter books:
“You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no . . . anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever . . . lost.”
I am not even close to this. After all, I live in Spain, and the sun shines and my patio blooms with red roses.
But maybe once every two months, for a day or two, I will wear that lead apron, and feel more like I’m existing than living.
And I write these words, I guess, to let the universe know that it is okay to have sad days, even when on a great adventure.
However, we must fight the dementors. Find your weapons, and practice your aim.
My arsenal includes exercise, making plans to see friends, and eliminating nonsense. I pray, and go outside, and let the wind of the ocean tangle my hair into knots.
Right now, that mostly does the trick. But I also have friends who know me, and love me. Here and back home. They watch, and they will tell me if they are concerned. If they think that this is situational, or a case of out-of-sync chemicals.
I write this because I know I am not alone. I know, that even in this beautiful land, we all have our Blue Periods.
Even when the roses bloom, and the sun shines on our face. Even then.