Hi, my name is… inconsequential.

And I’m broken.

But aren’t we all broken?

We are all covered in chips and tears that have been mended badly with bits of string and glue, the rickety whole held together with rubber bands and hope.  At some point, years ago, I shattered.  Shards of me were lost, but I filled the holes with flowers and beads, colorful yarn and crayons.  So the end result is a bizarre mesh of dark, sinister fragments and beautiful, idealistic patches.

Depressed?  Yes.  Sometimes it’s worse and all consuming, but sometimes like now, sometimes it’s just what feels like a chronic melancholy.  The difference is that depression is black.  Black slimy, sticky fingers in my brain tainting everything they touch; fingers probing deep into the grey matter making everything lackluster and hopeless.  Depression is a canopy that keeps your brain shaded, so that shadows fall across everything you see, dulling the colors.  It is darkness seeking darkness and it makes the world too bright.  Melancholy is a beautiful malaise.  It’s not all-bad-all-the-time like depression.  Melancholy can laugh and smile and feel a semblance of joy.  It’s not all-consuming, but it’s there on the periphery.  It lurks around corners and creeps up unexpectedly making it difficult to actually feel really, truly happy.

I surround myself with people who are positive.  The hopers and dreamers, the down to earth head in the clouds folk.  People with imagination and a sense of wonder.  It helps.  It helps to be around people who find beauty in burlap as much as silk, who are happy to make do and reinvent and recycle.  People who hate to see the (sub)urban sprawl eating up the fields and trees and regulating nature to museums and television programs.  Who do their small part to give back their community.  It helps brighten my dull world.

I try not to lose myself in the melancholy, but people who know me can tell when I’m having a harder time keeping the façade in place.  Friends know that when I drop off the planet that I’m not doing okay.  But that I’ll be back.  Writing helps sort out the cacophony of jumbled thoughts in my brain.  So often I tell the internet things I never admit outloud in real life.  So this blog probably isn’t the most uplifting thing you’ll ever read, but it’s true and it’s real and it helps me to stay sane.