If the external landscape is a signifier of one’s consciousness, I should feel miserable and cloudy. However, despite the rain pouring upon the hills at the back of my house and the howling wind, threatening to knock me off my pedastal, I am almost happy to be alive. Almost happy…not quite.
In contrast six years ago, during my first winter spent living in Scotland, the weather acted as a measure of my mental health. Relentless rain reflected a psyche drowning in the agony of its own thoughts of meaninglessness. I craved the summer sun and a town filled with visitors and smiles. When the summer arrived, thus came the visitors…and their smiles, whilst my own became more like an occasional visitor than a fair weather friend.
My depressive episode continued until months ran into years and the mere mention of hope induced feelings about which I would cynically sneer. Indeed, life seemed hopeless and wrought with fear.
What changed in my mind to counteract the depression and reduce my fears?
Affirmation that my writing was a publishable standard; affirmation that I was a living, valuable being. A form of affirmation which everyone deserves and needs.