Bellew Revisited

As I walked home tonight from the train, I passed the church as I always do, and I looked up hopefully through the doors as I always do. I feel a pull when I pass a church, like God tugging on my heart's sleeve and saying, "I am. I am. I am."

Usually when I pass the church, there are people milling around or there's no one there. Tonight, I passed the church and the doors were open and they were singing.

Hymns. The sound of all sorts of voices raised in praise to Heaven, a kind of non-existent harmony created simply by the very different people joined together. My heart leapt. It leapt like I do in dreams where I can fly. It jumps, juuuumps, juuuuuumps! And then it takes flight.

My heart leapt. And right as it was about to take flight, a car drove by with the windows down, blasting rap music. The church music was completely drowned out and remained overpowered as I passed out of hearing.

It made me want to cry.

It occurred to me that it's a metaphor for my depression. Now, don't get me wrong. My depression now is not nearly as terrible as it was when I started this blog. The story in between posts goes like this: I took medicine over the summer. I did more therapy. Things were very good. The sun came out. And then second year made it impossible for me to go to therapy and I stopped taking my medicine because I thought that it might interfere with my acting (stupid). Second year passed by and I was no longer in school and I sank hard back into my depression, but never so deeply as when I first started this. So I never went back to therapy and I never got back on the medication. And sometimes I'm great and sometimes I'm awful, but it's never all the time. It's like the tide. Sometimes the beach is exposed and sometimes it's under water.

Tonight, my thought was that this experience, this craning to hear the hymns only to have it overtaken by the rap, that's the story of my depression. My natural state is to enjoy those things in life. Breathing in the quiet magic of reading a book in a park. Imagining characters and stories based on people on the subway. Feeling the age of the cobblestone streets of downtown. These are the hymns of the world and I am meant to hear them. But sometimes I can't. Sometimes the rap is too loud.

In a recent blog, Wil Wheaton likened his depression to always being in a very loud room but never realizing how loud it is because you can't remember anything else. He said when he went on medication and finally left that room, he was amazed at how quiet and enjoyable everything became.

Tonight, I am not depressed. At least, I am not more depressed than I am at peace. The rap is a little quieter at the moment and I can hear some of the singing. But it's still there. I can't remember a time when it wasn't, though I know there must have been one.

I wonder what that's like. One day I'd love to give it a try.