{"id":6831,"date":"2020-02-12T18:01:20","date_gmt":"2020-02-12T16:01:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/theiner.net\/motorprosa-beta\/?p=6831"},"modified":"2022-03-03T15:15:20","modified_gmt":"2022-03-03T14:15:20","slug":"depression","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.motorprosa.com\/en\/depression\/","title":{"rendered":"Depression"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"MotorProsa:<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Living with depression. Difficult times, years long gone, which I fortunately only remember darkly (sic!). Arduous years in which I found no courage even for the smallest things. A painless suffering in every single cell, overpowering and unbearable without help from others.<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Das<\/figure>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Ayreon \u2013 \u201eDay Three: Pain\u201c<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201eI am pain. I am real. I’m not a dream.
 I’m the chain around your neck as you scream.\u201c<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

In the middle of the forest, on the way to the Stelvio<\/a>, lies hairpin bend 36. Supported by the highest retaining wall of all the Stelvio hairpin bends, an estimated 15 metres of free fall to the road below. Only knee-high stones as an obstacle. I fly towards it on my Ducati. A slight tug with my right index finger is enough to slow down and get through this bend. If I don’t do that, it doesn’t bring my motorcycle to a halt \u2013 but my suffering inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"MotorProsa:

\u2026 it’s only going down \u2026<\/h3><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Pull the brake?<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Dozens of times, turn 36, again and again. More than once I turn around, forced by my melancholy – it can’t just be brought down into the valley. If my suffering and my life are to end, then it should happen at its peak \u2013 on the favourite road, on the favourite motorbike, at the favourite activity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tears accompany me \u2013 on the approach to turn 36, as I drive on. Sad tears, because of the demons crushing me. Joyful tears, because I am always stronger than them. Angry tears, because my soul remains black even in the brightest summer light. Perplexed tears because I cannot understand this blackness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"MotorProsa:

The hairpin bends of the Stelvio \u2013 highly emotional places<\/h3><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Anathema \u2013 \u201eRegret\u201c<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201eThere’s no escape from this \u2026
 fear, regret, loneliness \u2026\u201c<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Actually<\/strong>, I’m doing great: I’m living in my first flat of my own, a change of job has given me financial opportunities I’d never even dreamt of before, and being a man is also working out fine – there’s no shortage of one-night stands, I’m never alone \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2026 but I am lonely \u2013
 in everything I do \u2026<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

I don’t manage to understand the loss of a great love for years. I brood over it for days. I ask myself questions, spend far too many long nights in the mire of my doubts in the murky wet of a cooled-down bathtub. Even longer nights I pass in my rusty car, I burn more than a tankful of petrol in order not to freeze to death. During all this, I helplessly suffer headache episodes of the most enormous magnitude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"MotorProsa:

Lost in darkness, loneliness and pain \u2026<\/h3><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Friends are there. Not many, but good ones. There are bright moments, for a short time even a lively glow, when my heart may beat for someone again after a long period of resistance, worry and fear. It remains – of course – with a few beats, and I just manage to stop in time at turn 36 once more \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anathema \u2013 \u201eLost Control\u201c<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201eI am falling ..
 How much longer ’till I hit the ground?\u201c<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Nevertheless, in this time of standstill, I become the head of the family and father of a desired child – the very greatest moment in my life. I free my son from his umbilical cord, breathe in his rhythm during the night, feel the warmth of his little body. The same blood flows in our veins and our hands have the same shape. I watch him grow up – and overlook my own demise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The love that gave my son life slowly but inexorably turns into hatred and threatening mistrust. Everything of my old self is lost in this struggle – everything that has given me at least some joy so far disappears. Riding a motorcycle? Doesn’t happen any more. Friendships? Almost all lost. Long hair, loud music? Gone \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I weed the dandelions in my garden for months without success. I stay sleepless at night to drag myself through the day burnt out. The pain in my head destroys my body – I put on double-digit weight, have more absences than working hours, slide into financial ruin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anathema \u2013 \u201eFeel\u201c<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201eSlipping away,
 I think I’m gona crack \u2026\u201c<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The breakdown is inevitable. Fears, severe pain and impossible amounts of swallowed medication leave no room for life. Worries eat up what little time is left after endless discussions. My son’s bitter tears when I say goodbye to the house we share drown the rest of the joy in me. The Stelvio is closed, hairpin bend 36 unreachable \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My doctor, my therapist and my psychiatrist finally recognise a severe depression in me, pull the emergency brake \u2013 and organise a place for me in the Waldhaus Chur<\/a>. I leave my home and use the last crumb of courage for the journey to the clinic at the foot of the Churfirsten. While I am still \u201echecking in\u201c, my mental system, which is not running smoothly, is brought down with strong tranquillisers \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"MotorProsa:

My home for a long time: the Waldhaus in Chur<\/h3><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

With a slow, cloudy gaze, as if through frosted glass, I recognise people from the middle of the meritocracy, blocked because of insurmountable anxiety, unable to open a letter addressed to them. Teenagers, barely out of puberty, with massive eating disorders. Students throwing their intellect at drugs. Fresh, bloody cuts on scarred upper arms, girls caught in the hamster wheel of beauty, fashion and cosmetics. Lost souls, pushed to the wall, creeping through the corridors, and other inmates, driven by new obsessions every hour, rush past them, newly dressed every half hour and forgetting the names of the other inmates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the midst of these fates: me. My place becomes a red, soft couch at the end of a corridor, opposite the sideboard with the small clinic library. It almost seems to me as if someone had put the books there just for me – no one else is leafing through the stories. I sink into a dream world described by others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ayreon \u2013 \u201eDay Three: Pain\u201c<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201eI can’t accept this. We will find a way
 out of this cesspool of doom and dismay.\u201c<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I am woken up at 7.30 in the morning – preparing breakfast together with 15 strangers. I am supposed to keep a mood calendar, sign up for regular discussion meetings on a wide variety of topics. Several times a week I walk barefoot and with closed eyes over thin foam mats to \u201eget a feeling for myself again\u201c. I dance with my roommate to asian sounds to \u201eallow closeness again\u201c. I hike – hard on the physical limit – for hours through the F\u00fcrstenwald, accompanied by my carer, to whom I tell my whole life. I walk until I am exhausted along the paths in the forest, in search of myself \u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"MotorProsa:

Weeks in the \u201elunatic asylum\u201c \u2026<\/h3><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Necessary decisions for my future are identified, their consequences are played out, fears are taken away and courage is given. Things I could never understand are explained to me and connections that are not clear are explained – but above all, I am prepared for the \u201enew life\u201c:<\/p>\n\n\n\n