Much like the pain of childbirth, the brain does not remember the total feeling of helplessness and agonising pain associated with a 'low phase' of a depressive episode. While the former makes complete sense (humanity needs women to make more babies or at least we did in the past), the latter is just a sadistic turn that evolution took. No amount of recording (via diary writing, sharing, or even videotaping) the despair ones goes through is ever remembered even remotely correctly. This is why every down phase hits me with a degree of surprise that knocks even the tiniest positive emotion out of me. Considering the amount of laughter that my body is used to - I am a laugher when I am medicated adequately and not experiencing rollercoaster-style ups and downs - there is not even an ounce of laughing muscle memory that remains to pick me up even just a little bit.
What remains is getting through that tough period of time that is timeless, while floating around in a place that is spaceless, looking through eyes that are sightless as no light can penetrate this point in my journey of life. When solace is not an option, and all my techniques of self-soothing and coping fly out of the window, my hands still remember to reach for my crochet hook. And while my fingers move to the gentle rhythm of single crochets and double crochets and trebles my heart aches to remember the times when this very rhythm soothed me. It takes a while, but as I pick out random balls of yarn, the project morphs from yarn to a blanket as my mood shifts subtly and my eyes adjust to the darkness and begin to 'see'.
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