Only a few years ago was I depressed. No energy, no motivation, suicidal ideation… the whole works. However, there was a sort of emotional clarity present. My feelings were raw and real. Insights into human nature and condition flowed through my mind. I saw (at least what felt like) philosophical truth. Superficiality, hollowness of norms, the absurdity of it all. I was able to write pages of dense, directed, cohesive analyses of every strand of emotion that so much as brushed upon me. As this occurred during my formative years, my identity had grown around this depressive realness. Nowadays, I feel comparatively motivated (with the help of some supplements). I have the energy to get things done, the desire to see the rising sun, and overall breathe an optimistic air. Though the strength and motivation seems to have come at the price of emotional sharpness and authenticity. A sort of translucent barrier has placed itself between my heart and mind. No longer am I precisely sure of what I’m feeling. Emotions muted. It seems as though I just do and do and do, under some happy spell. That is to say, it doesn’t feel real. I parse things objectively. Even now, recognizing this contrast between my past and present self evokes next to no feeling in my chest. Only that on the surface, it has felt as though I’ve cheated who I am. The rat race once laid bare and exposed before my thoughts; I now find myself enthusiastically (somewhat) joining. This strength and drive to achieve feels external to myself. There is no deep inner emotion propelling me forward, rather that some primal instinct rooted in happy neurotransmitters is pulling me every which way. In MRI scans of depressed vs normal brains, the depressive brain is much less lit (not in anyway a scientific observation). But the experience of it feels otherwise. Then, my mind was scanning, analyzing, feeling — all the time. And tended to result in deep insights. Now, my mind seems to trivialize most everything on an emotional scale, dry. Somehow, I get the mental image of a ball coasting through a resistant medium. There is an artificial goal to get somewhere as quickly and efficiently as possible. But one can’t help but wonder if something is being missed in all that is streaming by. A paraboloid would absorb all it encounters… and what if it wasn’t burdened by an artificial goal.

Perhaps I need to incorporate my two sides. I’m not sure if this is characteristic of recovering depressives. Either way, this nagging might be alleviated if I try to plant my feet and open my eyes going forward.