We’re deep into autumn now, though the weather this week is meant to be warm, and I’m starting to feel the crushing despair that seems to come every year around this time. The hopelessness, the meaninglessness of everything, the feeling that it’s pointless even to try, to carry on for another day. That everything I do is doomed to failure.
I’m aware that a lot of what I end up writing about tends to relate to mental health and mental illnesses, but it’s probably because it’s such a huge part of my daily life. For decades now I’ve struggled with the ups and downs of manic depression, or bipolar, or whatever the doctors want to call it next. For the longest period of this time I went unmedicated, never really knowing that there was another way to be. Some days were better than others, but I lived most of my life in a gray fog, never quite seeing the sun or the world around me.
Love is a underlying theme in much of my writing. Erâth, the fictional world of my novels, is a world long-bereft of love, and so it is all the more potent when our main characters feel it for the first time—having never known of its existence. Love is, I think, an underrated quality in our lives today; something too freely and carelessly thrown about, without regard for the deeper meanings behind it. We fail to recognize true love, we confuse it with lust, we think it will solve all our problems … when I believe the truth of love is deeper and more powerful than all of that.