Okay world, when I said "no rest for the wicked" I didn't need you to take it so literally!

Anyways, our garage flooded today, so that was fun.  Those first few minutes of consciousness were an interesting experience.  I was lying on my back in bed, awake, with my glasses on, listening to the sound of the pouring rain, doing what I said in my last post -- remembering my emotions from the previous day.  Then I got the news and was spurred unthinkingly into action.

In a strange twist of karmic fate (or perhaps just lucky planning on my part), zero of my belongings were damaged, so I had no emotional processing to do, only labor and work.  Well, I was already feeling pretty.....unfeeling before this, so in an odd sort of way, it was "fine".  You do what you need to do, you put in the work, and you neither celebrate nor complain.  You just keep going, I guess.

Depression is a weird thing.  You feel at the same time too upset to enjoy yourself, but also unmotivated to turn yourself into something useful.  It's different than "sadness", I think.  With sadness I feel an apt desire to less myself feel an emotion.  With depression it's not like there is a distinct lack of emotion, but more that it feels like it doesn't really matter whether I feel it or not.

Last night I watched a few short films that centered around selective mutism.  I was looking for stories about people who don't speak, really.  It's odd though, I understand that often these people are suffering, and that it would be a great thing if they could overcome their struggles and learn to talk and communicate verbally with others.  But I of course come with a different experience of silence, one where it must be harbored, fostered, cared for in the face of societal norms and cultural expectations.  Silence is safe.  Of course, it is great to be able to be brave, to face your fears and to share yourself in a way that is vulnerable and human.  But there is no reason to deny our desire to stay safe and comfortable as well, it is a part of us just like all of the others.

They sometimes say that the act of exiting the womb is the first traumatic experience we undergo as human beings.  Not just a painful experience, but a traumatic one -- one that rips us away from safety and warmth and into the outside world.  As children we instinctively withdraw underneath our covers when we are afraid.  Why should things be any different as adults?  Does the superego control us so, that we cast off the desires that make us human?

Tomorrow is the start of a new year.  Perhaps, the start of a new practice for me as well.