Depression and anxiety have been daemon accomplices breathing in tandem with me. They translate their warped view of reality into my subjective experience, silencing my anguished cries, leaving me feeling powerless to act.
My work pattern has been dictated by the rhythms of my daemons; they rage rabidly and I am left fearfully paralysed seeking shelter; their bad-wolf snarling calms unexpectedly and I might try to express some emotion, to expunge the voices with some creative endeavour before the fury starts again.
And so it has been for so long.
But with seasons turning and with much time given from those who care about me, there are changes.
I know how lucky I am.
These days I try not to heed the harrowing whisperings. I work more often to my own rhythms.
New ideas for finished pieces are emerging.
I detect new flows.
And that is hopeful.
More than that it is tentatively exhilarating... and I breathe.