Someday, a really hope that I write a serious essay on the existence (and/or definition) of magic.
For today I’ve settled for discussing the first on my mental list: Spells of Silence.
Let me begin here: Fairy tale silences are beginning to make a lot more sense to me.
How many people, today or at any time in history, have been trained to explain what they can’t explain?
I mean, I am one of the most articulate, word-ready people I know (Sorry if that sounds bad, it’s just true), and I have found myself mute in the face of certain circumstances.
This even comes after years of practice talking about how confused I am, or how I don’t have the words for something. In those situations I would keep talking (or journaling) until I reached some kind of coherence, or at least the next action point.
But something changed with the depression. I wonder at times (in the present) if I would have had some kind of help–more help– if I had tried harder to say how broken I was.
For the most part I kept quiet, because I didn’t have any better ideas to give people to give me, and I was pretty sure that criticism without offering alternatives was shameful. That was complaining and it recalled countless references over the years to “the children of Israel” after they’d been led out of Slavery in Egypt.
“Here they’d had so great a deliverance and now they were complaining about the food?”
I had little to give in terms of nurturing energy, and I imagined that I was caring for others by keeping the weight of my problems off of them. It made me feel nobler or more generous in my loneliness and isolation.
I’ve since learned that “Self-blame is a symptom of the disease [of depression].” That “people feel ashamed of being depressed, they feel they should snap out of it, they feel weak and inadequate. Of course [they do:] these feelings are symptoms of the disease.”
And these symptoms all go a long way to keeping us shut up.