sometimes you need a release

Back when psychology was all about running rats through mazes and giving them electric shocks, a theory of depression emerged. It argued that a decrease in positive mood came about when a positive reinforcer was removed. Much like a baby begins to cry when its favourite toy is lost or thrown away, so too will many adults become downhearted after something that used to bring them happiness (no matter how small) is gone. That goes a long way in explaining why moving house, deaths and divorces are such common triggers for low mood.

I say this because I sense a significant loss of positive reinforcement coming my way in...ooh, about ten days now. Rob will be packing his suitcases, which are currently inhabiting my living room floor, and jetting back to that big ol' country he calls home.

In a lot of ways, I have no excuse for moping. I knew, we both knew, that this would happen. But that doesn't make it any easier.

The rat quickly learns that a green light precedes a food pellet, and I quickly learned to take Rob's presence for granted; only a text message or AIM login away. He's given my life structure ("What are you doing this weekend, Scott?" "Oh, I'll be seeing Rob." "That's nice, what've you got planned?" "Um...not sure yet, I guess we'll decide when we meet up." "Fair enough. Say, have you had a chance to read those articles for our presentation next week." "...Shit.") that I fear will be sorely lacking once he's gone ("What are you doing this weekend, Scott?" "Well, I bought this book of cryptic crossword puzzles yesterday..."). Dammit, I'll have to go and make friends again.

Rob is in Alice Springs at the moment, so these few days are something of a practice, although of course it isn't the same. The aforementioned suitcases are lying on the aforementioned living room floor. The Australian version of Monopoly is sitting on top of the piano. The fold-out lounge sags when I sit on it because the mattress is upstairs, lying on top of the futon (I refused to share a single bed for the entire time Rob was staying here, not wanting to spend any money on costly chiropractic procedures). In short, I'm bombarded with cues that indicate Rob will be back, thereby preventing me from fully engaging with the inevitable. I think that it's only when the suitcases move and the futon gets folded up and all the other cues disappear that the reality will hit me.

This probably all sounds very melodramatic, especially when you consider that Rob hasn't even left yet. But a bottle of soft drink will explode when it's shaken enough, and a person will fall apart when too much pressure is applied and there's no release valve; several formerly stoic great-aunts of mine have been hospitalised and given electroshock treatment for depression in the last few years. And while I'm not suggesting that on the 27th of July I'll be the next family member to light up like a Christmas tree (well, not our Christmas tree, which is older than I am and has branches that won't support anything heavier than the paper angels my brother made in preschool, although this is probably somewhat off topic), I'd rather be safe than sorry. So you get this whiny entry, you lucky devils.