the energy of love and depression as a mass

100205 05:15
{I have posted nothing for the past seven days--of course I wrote, but what I wrote seemed to go nowhere until now . . . if I stop writing I will die.}

I am in trouble. Having been depressed all my life I recognize it’s onset.
And my dreams are driving me out of sleep in confusion, not ecstasy.The worst are conflicts without resolution, I’ve had many, and taken years to understand and integrate them into my real life: the daily, ordinary of why I don’t give a fig, or one red cent, for my life.
The first dream was of my paternal father confessing to me adultery with a barely legal girl whom he described in graphic detail; and their assignation in minute, salacious minutia.
Dad arrived in the dark of night of a cold winter's night. It had been raining a long time and despite the fact that he was driving, he was soaking wet, calling out to me not to bother with the front door light or to help him unload his vehicle; we were alone. I was astonished ro realize he was ninety-two at the time. Mother long dead and I, as usual, was alone in reality.
I awoke to void; it is a technique I learned long ago: drink lots of water before retiring to capture my dreams. Some are episodic while others have continuity and are roughly short-story length.
The second dream was devastating; detailing my complicity in, or actual murder of, a exceptionally beautiful girl, blonde, young (as in somewhere between infancy and eighteen.) The scenario was historical, a revelation of evidence in a file. Portraits of her, news reports, police files, evaporated one-by-one in front of my startled eyes.
In panic I pled for them not to be destroyed since their destruction eliminated any hope of a viable defense. I did not do the crime and was guilty only by innuendo, inference and implication by an authority unseen. . . . I now suspect it something like the Lindbergh’s child being murdered.
In each case (or dream) it was my paternal father who seemed the adversary. After all, from beginning to end, he seemed jealous of my, as he called them, “many women.”
The first was a little girl who would ride standing on the back of my tricycle returning home sans panties. While he bemoaned  requisite defense of my innocence, and hers, to her mother; he laughed about that until nearly the day he died. And then the Lindbergh’s bought a flute for their daughter from him. We were too young but he seemed to hold the ideal of marriage from that moment forward.
Mother was savage in her rage and aggression. Dad was equally so but passive.
I think my depression’s origin is rooted in the simple fact that I have moved from a candid record of everything to a idealized reality of my current life in these pages; my personal journal. There are only two historical figures I am aware of who attempted, and succeeded, this enterprise of writing themselves into sanity (to go as far as IT--their lives--go): Carl Jung and Rene Descartes. And I think, but have yet to investigate, Anais Nin is one also, whose two poems:
"He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie"
"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." have become nearly equal to 1 Corinthian’s 13 in personal relevance.
I write to save myself and those, who like me, have/had no loving attachment point in life.
In my case it was the instance of being left in the care of my maternal grandmother for one year at the age of five. And then each summer thereafter until I became my father’s minimum wage slave at thirteen. To say that I love my father and have forgiven him, and myself, now is to speak of a love beyond description. But, perhaps, best described in that there is no mortal authority that I trust to speak my truth; since to give such power is to be a victim and slave to them, or it. If I love my enemy I do so in full knowledge of what I was as an enemy to myself.
I have been up to my armpits in quicksand all my life until now. Attempting to find a reason to live by climbing a vertical glacier without finger holds--such is the nature of my depression.
. . . my grandmother was the only constant love I ever knew and I was taken away from that repeatedly; small wonder I've been crazy all these years.