Do I want to make friends with my monster? Or fight it to its death? Is the monster a part of me? A sick part? Or just a byproduct of my culture? Is it something to be slayed or something to be tamed?
I’ve tried so many methods of dealing with my depression over the years: ignoring it until it wasn’t possible anymore, hating myself and the world and blaming everyone and everything else, taking out its frustrations against myself through self-harm in multiple methods throughout the decades, embracing it and trying to accept it as who I am rather than as a disease, medicating myself into a fog of supposed tranquility, trying desperately day-by-day to meet its ugly face, writing about it and now—a new approach that uses a little of all these past attempts.
I’m meeting my monster every day and trying to shake it out of my system. I’m writing about what comes up every day as I deal with this monster that is depression. I’m taking a stand before its claws become so sunk in again that I can’t breathe, that I can’t move.
I am moving. I am dancing. I am sharing my struggle, my journey, with others in hopes of being a handle for others who might need to grab on. And in turn, I am hoping that when I need someone to grab onto, I will find others who understand and who will be there for me to hold onto.
But the biggest problem is that when the monster is in control, I can’t reach out. I go into hiding. I become the monster.
Is my urge toward creativity the way I make sense of who I am? If I didn’t try to understand myself, didn’t try to express this thing inside of me that wants to be released, would I then become the monster for good?