That Sugar Cane, That Tasted Good

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Sweden - Hedonist: 1-0.
Things have been rough lately. Let me illustrate what I mean by pasting in parts of what this entry looked like when I first wrote it:

“I've been waiting to write here again. Waiting for things to improve, waiting to feel better. I didn't want to crush my image of content aloofness, inner strength and at times nearly maniacal bliss. Not only the image you might have of me, but more importantly, the image I have of me. The person I can relate to, the person I feel is really me, she would never write an entry like the one that's being composed here. She would never fall this far, she would never crash this hard.
She would never go to sleep wishing she had Valium to take the edge of the anxiety.

I've been sharing with you stories of adventures of various types, and even when there's been tedious periods or harsh adversities, I've been up for the fight, almost grateful for the challenge so that I can prove to myself once more that I really have this Life-thing figured out.
I don't. Turns out I've just been really happy, at which point Life is a pretty easy ride. But once you let Swedish autumn sprinkle some seasonal disorder over your situation, you might find your strength slowly dissipate, like carbonation in an opened can of Coke.

I'm having a hard time thinking my way out of this, and I can't crawl anywhere to escape it. It's just there. Waking up in the morning feels like staring down the barrel of a gun, loaded for a game of Russian Roulette. It could just say 'click', or it could blow my fucking face off. There's no way of knowing how it's going to turn out. And there's always that weird taste of blood in my mouth.

I'm no longer wrapped up in that beautiful whirlwind of events and activities. These days, I put my phone on silent at night purely out of habit, and not because there's really much risk of anyone calling or texting in the middle of the night. But I liked waking up to those missed calls, I liked the drunken messages asking me to come join at some club or dive bar or party somewhere. “Please come, the beer tastes better with you.” Even when I slept through it with no intention whatsoever to join, it felt good to wake up to solid proof that there had been things happening, that the world was buzzing with life, and that somewhere out there in all that activity, someone thought of me.

What is it with me anyway? Is a bit of sober moderation really that terrifying, is boredom really that bad? And doesn't it signify that something is fundamentally wrong with me if Life always has to be a Triple Decker Super Fudge Sundae with a goddam cherry on top for me to not throw up my hands and pray for an avalanche of pharmaceuticals to wash over me? Since when do I turn to drugs as my only reliable salvation?

And then there's that whole midnight crane incident. The two guards were very vexed. The three policemen angrily explained that trespassing was a felony, and that climbing a construction crane was dangerous. Me, I just tried to keep my distance so they couldn't smell my breath.”

Can you believe this was me? For weeks, this is how I felt. Lost, terrified, alone. I had no idea if it would pass, or if it would stay with me, and if so, for how long? I was scared shitless.
Depression makes you so isolated, so utterly alone. My friends and family were all there, and they could alleviate the worst parts momentarily, but as soon as they weren't around to hold me together I crumbled again. Trying to not succumb to crying, I could spend hours just sitting in the quiet of my home, a forlorn specter remembering who she used to be.
My self-confidence dissipated, and I didn't want to “bother” anyone when I felt sad. I didn't even pick up when they called. I knew they'd be hoping I was doing better, and I knew I would only disappoint them if I answered and let on how I was actually feeling. My tepid 'hello' would give it away, so I just let the phone ring. Surely they had better things to do than try to cheer me up, again.
At one of my lowest moments I considered hibernating in the bedroom for a few days, but luckily, something told me that turning my apartment into a dark dungeon of desolation in which I could quietly resign from everyone and everything was a really, really bad idea. Even the poor state I was in then, the vicious pointlessness of such escape was obvious, but the fact that I felt so dejected that I considered putting myself in a solitary confinement made me think about seeking help. This was a very unattractive idea, except for the obvious; maybe I could get my hands on some Valium. Yes, a quick fix for when the problem appears. Just what I wanted.
But asking for professional help scared me, and in order to give myself an option to climbing the solid barrier that sat between me and that phone call, I gave myself a chance to try to fix the problem on my own first. The deal was simple: unless things got better within a month, I'd make that dreaded call and demand to see a therapist. But first I would lean as heavily as I dared on everyone around me, until I had completely depleted that source of support and the phone call was all I had left.

If you're going to be depressed anywhere, it helps to be in a country with omnipresent grey, since this means that every single soul you talk to can relate to what you're experiencing. It's not like I had monopoly on depressive behavior, by any means. In winter, this whole nation is held hostage by a plague of punch-drunk somnolence, staved off only by an overconsumption of coffee. No one but Finland drinks more coffee than us, and caffeine is generally accepted as a panacea to most every mundane difficulty. No wonder I immediately sought out a job within a coffee-grinding establishment where I could eat, drink and smell the beans whenever I felt the need.
Still, most other Swedes seemed to have figured out how to handle the sadness when it strikes, but I reasoned they have simply had more practice than me. I too would get the hang of this, if given some time. I just needed to learn to not panic when the sadness set in, and I needed to figure out how to best handle it when it inevitably showed up from time to time. After all, this was just another challenge, and for someone who prides herself on being a skilled problem-solver, a challenge is really just a bit of recreational fun. The fact that this particular predicament felt like a Rubik's Cube from Hell only made it that much more stimulating.

The plan to exercise patience before biting into the juicy Swedish health care apple turned out to be a good one. People came through and were there for me in every way possible, and soon I found enough inner strength to help me get back on my feet. Now things have been good for a while, and I'm pretty certain I'm not depressed, but I've also realized that here in Sweden, my good spirits sometimes need a kickstand. Alcohol is not a good one, but friends and nights out dancing are. On my wonky pilgrimage towards gratified serenity, I realized that the margins of error are far slimmer here, and with the governing conditions I can't afford to chase the ephemeral highs all the time. I have to start living according to what I know is good for me.
Write. Exercise. Dance. Meet new people. Grow up and be good to yourself.
So far the recipe is successful. Once again there is a soft social buzz around me, and the people who create it are damn fine human specimens that I'm proud to know. There is love and affection and doorbells ringing, and the silent function on my phone once again has a purpose.

It goes without saying that the chief contributor to my blue mood has been my desire to be elsewhere. No one will ever find calm contentment when constantly wishing they were in another place, and even though I tried to accept my position in Sweden, I ultimately failed to do so. Logically, I looked for reasons why it was actually a good thing to be back, carefully listing them in my notepad to make them real, but emotionally I couldn't convince myself. It still felt unfair, and I still felt like something had been taken from me for no apparent reason.
A recent routine health check-up changed all that. I was asked to return for additional samples, and I started to see what may been the very reason Life decided to ship me home against my will. Last week I received a formal hospital letter describing the surgery I will now have to undergo to remove tissue non grata, and things appear even clearer.
This would've gone unnoticed in Sydney. For all I know it's being caught just in time, before it grows into something severely malignant. As it is, I'm sure I'll be alright, but that's probably purely because I came back to Sweden.
My bitter indignation for being stuck in Sweden swapped place with gratitude and relief for finding this problem. It sort of all makes sense now.

Tall, dark and bearded; you may have read these three words in close proximity here before, and you've most likely surmised that as far as someone can have a 'type', that is mine. I recently met someone who fits this description, and he seems to be attracted to excessively extrovert, voluble tomboys with weird haircuts and an affinity for sneakers.
Let's see what happens.

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Comments

[diana]

Gumman!
En riktig varm kram kommer här!! love you