Rarely do I get depressed, but this week I have been slightly down and out. Not badly, but I let my aloneness come out from behind my words.
I had gotten used to crowds gathering for any reason in my living room. In the late sixties and early seventies, many dinners were ten or more. Even when I wasn’t sane, there were always gatherings where ever I lived or in the bars I visited. Groups of us sat on the beach together every day. Often I would cook dinner and flee to a favorite bar afterwards. I was certainly was craving love and company. We are all scattered now, but I still really miss those friends.
Reading about Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s early years of marriage reduced me to sorrow. Her son had been kidnapped and killed. She then had to suffer through the trial and the always hounding by reporters worsened until there was no place she felt safe. Her diaries and letters were a touchstone as I regained my sanity.
I live with a man who has to force himself to be social. No reporters hound us, but retreat into solitude is his natural action. He easily gets depressed. Now he lives with a sunshine light next to his computer and his humor flows easily again. Perhaps I too need a lamp especially during winter months. My hour a day in the sun at the pool doesn’t seem enough when I read sad materials.
Today my skin is ruined, but my soul rejoices in the sunshine.