Good Grief 318

It's the most gloriously sunny Sunday morning as I write this after watching the sun set on Little Cloud of my blip here yesterday.

Language and meaning.

No one ever talks about them in the DSM. I don't mean to give DSM a hard time. In fact, DSM 5, the latest version has controversially removed the bereavement exclusion from the depression diagnosis. Quite rightly, I feel. It all comes down to a judgement. It's an art not a science. I don't intend to do a critical appraisal here but am, yet again reminded of 'we murder to dissect' and, I would add, to define and diagnose.

Anyway, it's a stunner this morning. I love my/our bedroom (still not sure where to go with that one). The sun streams in.
There are still some golden orbs of light in the shape of a few remaining whych elm leaves hanging on. A robin has just perched atop. Utterly silent out there in the world the other side of double glazing.

It is all beautiful and full of wonder. I look at the sharp light and see the shapes of things. There is the profoundest silence. We are all set, cast on this stage, in this moment. Suddenly, out the corner of my eye, out the window, I see breath. Breath of life billowing out to meet and mingle with the early crisp autumn air. The house next door is breathing. Or, more prosaically, the boiler has kicked in. And now I notice the roof steaming as it warms itself in the strengthening sun.

I feel a kinship with them, the building, the roof. Tomorrow no-one will ask them if they have had a good weekend. No-one will say to them, 'wasn't it stunning, what did you do?' No-one will impose upon them an expectation of gratitude for a weekend of sunshine. Nor will they have imposed upon them an expectation of things done and enjoyed.

Does this constitute anhedonia? Perhaps so, depending on your definitions and meanings.

I have lost sense of what makes a 'good' weekend. Things get done, one way or another. Time trundles on. There's the welcome break from the relentlessness of work. What makes for a good weekend? We could do mini DSM here...
Sunshine - tick
Break from work - tick
Relaxation - tick
A little fresh air and exercise - tick
A robin seen - tick

... hurrah. It was a good weekend. Jolly good. I will put on a smile tomorrow and say, 'Yes, thanks, it was a good weekend and I did this and that'. And the gulf of separation will arc outwards again, and even further, with the adriftness and the bobbing on years of empty ocean deep desolation.

Hmm...our 'meddling intellect' deceives and fails to see the life of things and of us.

It's the most gloriously sunny Sunday morning. The golden orbs are shining. The robin is handsome. The building breathes. The roof steams. It is all beautiful and full of wonder. I appreciate their beauty. They are as they are. I am as I am and full of despair, 'a power is gone which nothing can restore'. There are no 'good' times. It is neither good nor bad. It just is.

[As a footnote I would add that I frequently question the point/benefit etc of writing this ...swimming in shit...and all that. But I do know that it can enable. Weirdly. Something about just writing, saying it, it is a creativity of sorts. Hideous as it may be, and it can fill me with disgust. Bit like having done a crap I want to disown. But having done it, having allowed it/me it's/my voice, that part is heard and so I can get on with the walk and the cup of tea world (ref. yesterday's blip)]