A Low Weekend

For many, the idea that an artistic temperament goes hand in hand with intense highs and lows is commonplace. This past weekend, for no particular reason, was one of those lows. The thing with mental issues is while being self-aware can act as a warning sign ('Oh, I know this feeling. Do something cheerful, now, now, now!') there are times when all the forewarning in the world can't and won't change what is about to happen.

And sometimes pretending to be cheerful just doesn't work. Because that's what it is: pretending. I abhor pretense. I actually hate pretending to be happy more than I hate living with being sad.

I do not confide in people often. And yet, I am a person to whom others confide. Most of the time I don't begrudge it. Helping others with their problems, even when those problems mirror my own, grants me clarity. It is, perhaps, a terrible shortcoming that I am able to give advice, but not take it.

Nevertheless, I miss having a network of (nearby) friends. I miss afternoons strolling down busy streets, window shopping and drinking cappuccinos. I miss sitting with someone face to face, speaking about my work, or theirs. I admit, I long for my artistic safety net, my contemporaries, the passing back and forth of interesting information related to creativity. The things that make us happy; the things that make us tick. The things that make the highs and lows worth bearing.

I miss being around people who understand the highs and lows; the weekends spent sad for no reason; the singular Wednesday afternoon spent high as a kite on nothing more potent than a great idea.

I have work to do today, even if, at present, this work has an effect on no one save myself. Low weekends pass, and one can always hope for a High Wednesday. Or, even better, an Even Keel Day, Week, even Month where every day a little more work is completed.