Mood swings The human condition By Injy El-Kashef I remember when I was much younger, and used to suffer bouts of depression or was dissatisfied and frustrated with matters of this world, my father, unlike most fathers, never denied my feelings, or brushed them aside, with a "what could possibly be the matter, you are still so young, wait until the real problems hit". He did something worse: much of the time, he knew exactly what I was talking about. After days of refusing to "talk about it" (since I was absolutely certain that no words could describe what I was feeling, and that if I did, I would be dishonouring my depression by verbalising it in, what I was sure would be, inadequate terms) I eventually gave in to the pressure out of sheer guilt. By remaining silent I was, after all, cementing a wall between myself and whoever cared enough to ask me what the matter was; in my book, that is unkind and ungrateful. However, immediately upon embarking on what I thought would be a futile attempt at explaining my very solitary depression, or my chaotic mental confusion, I would find my father picking the thread of my first sentence and elaborating on my thoughts in much clearer terms than I ever would have hoped to do, explaining both the logical and the illogical twists my mind had taken to reach the depths of despair in which I found myself. I got so angry with him. How could he possibly know? How dare he sit opposite me, ever so calm, and lucidly pour out my own mind in the open, with the accurate precision of someone equipped with an emotional microscope, under which he could see my thoughts germinating in my head? I immediately denied that what he said was true, and instantly followed my denial with a bitter "you don't understand. How could you possibly understand? You are not me. We are so different, and we look at things so differently. Do you really think just because you were once my age you have the knowledge of what I, of whom there is only one in the world -- because there is only ever one of any of us -- think or feel? Do you think you have my problems figured out? You will never understand!" But the fact was he did understand; he did know. He'd clearly been there before. And that is the worst insult that could ever be inflicted on a depressed teenager. I valued every moment of my depression as a kind of treasure that one may give one's life in hope of attaining. It was mine, and mine alone. I wallowed in the thought of being misunderstood. It was my only solace when disappointed with friends, boyfriends, family, or life. As the years went by, I still guarded my gloomy moments with the possessiveness of a cat guarding her new litter. But I noticed that I was beginning to hope to be understood, that when my father listed, in his usual wise, matter-of-fact way, all the thoughts racing in my head, I actually felt a sense of comfort, albeit still drenched in resentment. Now, I have realised that the feeling of being misunderstood was a luxury that only the folly and insolent optimism of adolescence had allowed me back then, but that was gradually taken away from me with every subsequent return of the day. I have realised, by now, that if being misunderstood were the only reason for past or current sadness and disappointment, matters would have been as bright as the morning star. One day, I woke up, and I understood that I was perfectly understood, and that disappointments were the nature of things. I sat up in my bed, my eyes half- closed; I looked around and saw the room I shared with my sister, as if for the first time. I saw her neat and tidy side; I saw the pile of clothes on the back of my chair, the orange peel on my desk; and in that moment I understood that people changing, feelings fading, paths drifting, are as much a reality of life, independent of any misunderstandings, as the obvious difference between my sister's side of the room and mine, which had always existed and would always prevail. People change. Now, as I speak with those I consider closest to me, I realise that every time I express a negative thought about the nature of relationships I am perfectly understood. The look on their faces, and the comments that follow my description, are ones of immediate recognition. They all know what I am talking about. They all have been in that place, where the only question that hauntingly echoes in the mind is "why?" I do not know yet if I find solace or horror in that recognition. It is comforting and reassuring to know that when people change it is not because one has made a mistake; and that others have witnessed that change as well, for no apparent reason. It seems horrifying to think that human nature allows that when two people finally manage to connect in a world full of others, with whom such an accomplishment is not possible, that this connection would break, that it could be lost, from one day to the next, just like that.
