It’s the dead of winter in Scandinavia, and everyone is supposedly winter depressed as we only have very few hours of daylight and barely any sun. But we had frost last night, and woke up very early to a city covered in a fine white sheet. As the day wore on this poetic view changed and we are left with the perfect Nordic Noir. Time for ‘hygge’. Time for family. Time for hot mulled wine and candles. Blankets of clouds cover the city with dusty rain.
Surprisingly, this mood is more poetic and interesting to me. I don’t get depressed, I enjoy the melancholy beauty. Makes me feel. And that is one of the challenges of my schizotypy, that I’m often encapsulated in a fog and feeling the highs and lows can be difficult. So the ‘noir’ is a time for reflection. And reflection on other things than myself. Which is something I have a tendency to do. Time for good books, and since it’s just been Christmas, I have a neat little stack of new comers to my bulging shelves. Books are an escape, but also a trigger/short cut to emotions outside of what my daily life offers. I need this escape, as I’ sure many schizotypal people do.
A kindred spirit with a tragic destiny and a seemingly similar diagnosis. No wonder Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’, resonates with me. Since I was fourteen I’ve had my own private terminology to describe my abnormal experiences and my internal life. I’ve always called it ‘the dollhouse’. Then I recently stumbled on Sylvia Plath’s novel ‘The Bell Jar‘, which I strangely had never read. Really strange. Because she chronicles her experiences, in her ‘bell jar’, which is very much like my ‘dollhouse’. Except that my ability to read and write have never disappeared. What surprised me though, was how easy to read the novel was. Actually quite the page turner. Always suspected that it was drab and boring. But that certainly wasn’t the case. It was lively and entertaining and a light read. With some profound words.
“I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.” – Sylvia Plath
This sentence quite accurately describes the feeling when it is worst with me. This feeling of numbness, and emptiness. Her language has an elegance that carries you along, and I wish that she had had the time to write more novels in her all too short life. But I must start on the poetry- that is pretty spectacular too.
Right, if you haven’t already – go read!