Depression and Fear Are Gone

What Now?

I was devastated when they said my depression had lifted. What shall I do now, I wondered, when opportunity accosts me in the street?
Depression had always been my escape route. ‘I can’t do that’ I would mournfully sigh, reaching for my bucket of Prozac ‘I’m depressed’, and opportunity would bother me no more. But the depression has lifted. The ace up my sleeve has been ruthlessly removed. I am completely fucked! .....Andre Jordan

‘I’m leaving’ said The Fear, dragging his suitcase into the hallway.
‘Does this mean I shall be fear-less?’ I asked.
‘Not quite’ said The Fear, ‘Apprehension has decided to stay’.
I smiled, wished The Fear well, and watched him nervously open my front door.
‘Maybe see you again’ he almost smiled, as he headed for the waiting taxi.
‘Maybe’ I said, not wishing to be rude.
 And then he was gone.
I closed the door, took a deep breath, and smiled [apprehensively]....Andre Jordan

What I've learned

I know how you feel Andre! But I guess it is like the alcoholics say, One day at a time. Sure Fear is gonna come visit every now and again, but at least he won't be the doubtful guest he always was; staying too long, eating your food, reading your books and ruining your art with his ever watchful stare. Even when you tried to avoid him or tried not to see him, there he was, like the person you never want to sit next to on a plane. And though you held your breath and tried not to stare as Fear made his way down the aisle, deep in your heart you just knew - you just knew - a matter of course, that he’d sit next to you. But now you realize that you can get up and change seats, and leave Fear behind.  Fear will wave at you from where he is, sitting with his best pal Depression, but they won't join you, not unless you wave them over and invite them to be by your side. Fear and Depression will be there, but only for the next poor soul who wants to take comfort in their company.

Your Extraordinary Mind

I think Andre Jordan wrote this about me

Since I am such a big fan of cemeteries, this called out to me, I changed a few things, you will notice as you read to fit moi :)

Grave Girl (or Woman)
I found her sitting on a gravestone.
She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.
‘Hello’, I said.
‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.
‘Whom are you talking to?’
‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.
I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’
‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words’
‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.
‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.
‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.
‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.
‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842’.
Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation.
‘What is your favourite word?’
The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment.
‘Oh I have so many favourites. It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy’.
‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.
‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.
‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, (Take note here that your dear blogger Wendie does in fact suffer from depression) or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. (Note, that I, Wendie, do NOT like the Smiths, let's substitute The Cure here)
The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away’
‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time. (let's substitute The Cure here again)
‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’ (Cure Song)
And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing.
"I found myself alone upon the raging sea, that stole the only girl I loved and drowned her deep inside of me"
Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’.
I said I understood. I would bother her no more.
But I was devastated. Truly devastated.
Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’?
I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said.
So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late.
I had missed my one and only chance.
I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.

Oh Andre, did you find me one day at one of my many favorite haunts? Did you see me taking pictures and rubbing or kissing the gravestones that I found particularly sweet, touching or beautiful? Do you see me sit quietly, sometimes talking to my newly found, yet long deceased friends? Do you like watching me put flowers down on the graves of those I don't know, just so I can feel that connection? Am I like a Cemetery Fairy finding peace and love and tranquility where others find sorrow? Were you there when Bukowski and I shared a small bottle of red wine I brought with me for just that occasion; me sipping it and pouring him a bit into his grave? Are you there when I leave notes for my beloved Bela Lugosi? Do you see me photographing myself on top of his grave? Did I look happy?