I've stumbled upon a jewel, a pearl, even, of a book. It's certainly a near crime that I paid only $2.00 for such a treasure. Here's what I think so far of Finding Lily. So far, as in, I will surely write more about this book, all Richard Clewes' bittersweet revelations, and their impact upon the spirit me ~ my Muse. (N.B. ~ italicized words belong to Richard Clewes ~ you can find them in Finding Lily.)
I don't know my own story, or even if I care to write about it. Perhaps because for some, their stories weave through the stories of others, those we love so much? Perhaps because of how difficult it truly is to write the story which a quilt, or a tapestry tells?
I saw Erin's mania and depression - and how it emptied bank accounts and vapourised love - and managed to look right through it. I don't say that I didn't feel its sting; just that I gawked at depression's fury. Can eyes which have witnessed this be trusted to see? I mean, at what point do our physical senses betray us? Could we see relief out there, if it did indeed exist? Her depression was a mobile, 24/7 vortex pulling everything into a thick chaos. [Wandering] around the property and circled our house one last time [felt] like walking through the killing fields, haunted by so many buried dreams and secrets.
There was no one to talk to about it ... obfuscation became a kind of remedy. ... we'd go back to saying as little as possible about the Heavy Thing. Yes, that Heavy Thing that sits on my chest, atop that spot where my heart lives, that sometimes makes me afraid to fall asleep, sometimes makes me afraid to wake up. That Heavy Thing which J.K. Rowling personified into a creature called Dementor. It routinely threatens to suck out from me, all the joy that holds my soul together. That Heavy Thing, with such indomitable power it will crowd out all that makes me, me ~ an individual, if I let it. And leave behind the crumbled remains of a character ~ bits and pieces that no one can fuse together, for all the pieces than no longer exist.
The weirdrest part of bipolar disorder is that while its victims swing back and forth, spouses try to keep their own head from being chopped off by the emotional pendulum. This, truest statement breaks my heart, for all the walking wounded that reside within it. Including my very own wounded soldier.
How is it that I can wield such a lethal weapon, without really ever wielding it? That, I suppose, highlights the virulent, refractory nature of my friend, that Heavy Thing. There is no cure, only a spot where we have learned to make room for all those things from which we seek escape.