vingt regards sur l'enfant...

I have been studying this picture since my sister gave it to me on Monday. To me there is a sadness in my eyes. I was five years old. During that time I spent most of my time drawing. I drew birds. All kinds of birds. I had a copy of Audubon's BIRDS OF AMERICA and I copied the pictures out of it, using colored pencils which my mother bought me. One of the greatest birthday gifts I ever received was a set of pencils in what seemed to me like every color imaginable. I drew birds doing human things. Lining up at the synagogue (where did that come from?). Talking to one another.

In this depressed state--I sit here looking at the picture and writing in an attempt to break out of it--I look at myself almost four decades ago and wonder if I wanted to fly out of myself even then. I remember being despondent so much of the time. I was terrified that my parents would abandon me. I remember a constant gray sky, although that can't be accurate.

Today when walking back from swimming I thought to myself that maybe the only possible way for me to survive these depressions is to leave myself behind, like a bird that can fly thousands of miles high in the sky. Leave myself behind, because almost all the time now I find basic existence so torturous that if I think about it too long I cry.

I vowed that I would not complain any longer in this blog, and I meant it at the time. But since I also vowed, when I began this blog, that I would not hide from the truth, then today I have no other option but to write what I am writing now. I am looking out the window at a clear blue sky. It is beautiful; I recognize that. But it brings me no relief. I feel like there is little more that I or anyone can do to help me improve. Bleak, isn't it?