I was not, I was determined to believe--constitutionally depressed so much as situationally so. To that end, I've striven to live my life as such: I own I have a naturally happy disposition.
Childhood photos of me bear witness to this fact. Photos with my family often depict me as a rosy cherub, beaming at the camera. My melancholic kindred are downcast. They look away from the lens. Or regard it with sullen forbearance. Of course, my siblings regarded me as retarded. My cheerfulness clearly marked me as having a membership amongst the intellectually impoverished.
Depressives often develop a sort of superiority complex about their mental state. It is the more ARTISTIC state of mind. It has a rich poetic tradition. It is très BOHEMIAN. And if you were truly paying attention, were as acutely aware and deeply observant as they--then you, too would be depressed!
There is some truth to that. In psychology, the concept is known as depressive realism. In 1979, psychologists Alloy and Abramson, and in 1989 Dobson and Franche conducted two separate studies that seemed to indicate that depressed persons may have a more realistic perception of their abilities, importance in the world, and prospects in life. Which is an interesting, if depressing finding.
Although at times I've toiled like a carpenter ant to maintain my happy outlook, often I've FAILED. Miserably. When I'm free-falling into the black chasm, scrabbling to get a handhold on the edge of the bottomless pit, I am apt to wonder if I've been fooling myself all along. Perhaps I am a dismal melancholic, like the rest of my dreary tribe.
Should I just be REALISTIC? And accept my fated chemical temperament?
I've concluded this isn't true for me. Gothic gloom may be novel at Halloween, and titillates when one is in certain moods--but it's not my permanent address, and I don't want to live there year round. Though I admire the phantastically creative Goth aesthetic, I was never tempted to adopt it as my personal style. After a while, the darkness palls and I yearn for something fresh and clear. I must wear pink, go swimming, and laugh at something hilariously witty, but not morbidly so.
Thankfully, even when I've been at my most miserable, and worried to death I will be stuck in that mansion of despair forever, somehow I've always wriggled myself free. Even those times when I feared I was clinically depressed, in hindsight there were ALWAYS situational components to my distress. When I figure my way out, I find that my natural, happy disposition returns. As novelist William Gibson advises, 'Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just SURROUNDED BY ASSHOLES.' Which has often proved to be my real problem, not defective levels of serotonin or whatnot.
Now, after years of encountering such 'situational' situations, I have a bag of tricks, a Girl Scout emergency kit in which to rescue my oft-times teetering moods. Happiness repair has become one of my 'mad skills.' My mental hygiene.
Of course, we all know of individuals who are stuck fast in their depression, and can't or won't do something to move out. The wise person knows when it's time to cease grieving, when the noble wallowing process is finished, when to put a period at the end of purgatory, and begin a new project. Count me amongst the wise: I may be smacked down by life's giant fly swatter, but I'm resilient. I will come back. The sap is rising in my poor listless limbs, giving strength to my sword arm, or in my case, my pen. Or my keyboard. I finally feel my old happy self returning--and I am on the march toward my GLORIOUS hopes and dreams.
And even at this late time of my life, I'm still going to GET THAT PONY.
Even if it is totally UNREALISTIC.
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