I believe in premarital sex. And in waiting until you're married.
I believe in the X Files and in vast government conspiracies to cover up alien invasions. I believe in Gillian Anderson, Mr. T, and Bryce Harper. I believe baseball should be fun and we should hold fast to old school traditions.
I believe in books being made into epic movies. And I also believe that you shouldn't make books into movies... because the book is always (always) better.
I believe in saying inherently contradictory things in the same sentence. Or in two sentences that are right next to each other. I believe it's a literary device and I also believe it's truth. And I can believe that truth is stranger than fiction, but that fiction contains life's truths....
And I believe I forgot what I was going to say next...
Showing posts with label Misc. Thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Misc. Thoughts. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Why I Write
Writing is how I process life, how I savor its moments, and how I draw from the feelings and experiences we all share: love, pain, beauty, and friendship. My relationship with writing has changed and continues to change as I wend my way through life, but that’s what it always has been about. It’s an effort to extract, distill, and capture the things that are meaningful and the things that connect me to the world, the world to me, and all of us together. I think that’s what we are all trying to do. For me, putting it down on paper brings it into sharper focus.
I started writing when I was 12. This first attempt was short-lived. Someone – I forget who it was - gave me a diary, and I thought I should give writing a shot. That was, after all, the point of having a diary, right? I didn’t get very far. I ended up with just one prosaic entry of the “Dear Diary” variety. I didn’t yet have much to say.
Then, in high school, I fell in love. Exploding with yearning and grappling with feelings I hadn’t experienced before, I turned to poetry as an outlet. I still have the worn green spiral notebook with every poem that I wrote. Despite the fact that the great majority of my high school poems are not very good, for me they are epic simply because they are windows into my high school mind:
I sit here drunk and smelling/of her/I feel her lips pressed against mine/still/I sit here quiet and cold/warm because she’s with me/cold because she’s gone
Through my early poetry attempts, I learned that writing could be a container in which to pour my overflowing emotions, a vehicle to try to capture and mark new and powerful feelings, a way to try to understand myself in the context of the world.
In college and then after, my writing turned to a sort of personal travel journalism. I diligently cataloged my trip to Israel during my freshman year and two backpacking adventures through Europe, one in the summer after college and the other two years later before law school. These trips were my first tastes of the bigness of life - and I wanted to savor every bit. My journals were my attempt to stitch together the smells, tastes, and adventures with the rich characters I met along the way:
In Prague: “The skies opened up and it poured – thunder, lightning, and drenching rain. Dan was our leader, map in hand, sniffing a scent, darting under overhangs until he found the restaurant. This guy was super boy-scout man, adding to the legend of Danforth the tracker. We walked downstairs, thru dark corridors. The place was like a cave. Each table had pulley lamps hanging low.”
In Brugges, Belgium: “We all sat and drank beers. At midnite, the group of us went for a walk amongst the canals. It was late, but I still had all this weird energy. We ended up sitting by the windmills near this clicking traffic light on a canal a block from Bauhaus, talking about religion, education, music, the United States, New Zealand, politics, and swapping stories from our travels and college days.”
More recently, when I lived abroad in Japan with my wife and two kids, I again took up the travel journalism, this time via a blog that – when we printed it out – had mushroomed to the size of two hardcover coffee table books. I wrote almost every day; it made me think about where I was and what I was doing, about what mattered, what was funny, what was touching, what was the crux of our life experience. Now, “The Blog” serves as my memory of our time abroad, my impressions and thoughts safely tucked inside the digital amber. Reading my entries six years later is like plugging into The Matrix, sucked backwards in time and space, senses rekindled, thoughts retraced, the thrill of new friendships and of exploring new places brought back again. Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” It’s like that.
To that point my writings had been for myself, but as I grew more comfortable with my writing and myself – and in keeping with my obsessive need to share thoughts, feelings, songs, and newspaper articles - I became more social about it. For this burning need to share, I blame my mother; the seeds planted by the dozens of articles my mother would clip, underline, circle and send to me. So it was natural that sharing my stories, both real or made up, would become a reason for writing.
As a reader, I’ve always been an obsessive underliner, bracketer, and highlighter, scratching notes in the margins, double exclamation points, getting turned on at good writing, the kind of writing that resonated deep inside. As I’ve grown older, in an impossible quest to hold all this goodness close, I have become a collector of quotes. I have stockpile them in a massive list that when someday someone finds will say something – who knows what – about me. Some say that quotes are lazy – “those who can’t write, quote”? Not me. A good quote is a perfect self-contained piece of art painted from words that captures a universal truth, a feeling we all know, a sunset.
Here is a favorite one, from Neil Gaiman, about how we all have stories inside of us: “Every one has a secret world inside them . . . Everyone. Unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Thousands.” It’s a powerful thought.
I’ve now gotten the point where I have stories that I want to tell. I’ve starting playing with short stories – a mix of fiction and memoir-ish life moments. A good story conjures, connects, and captures something about the human condition and expresses it in a compelling way. As one of my favorite authors, Haruki Murakami, said: "A story . . . is not something you create. It is something that you pull out of yourself. The story is already there, inside you.” I’m fascinated by that concept.
I’ll be continuing my search for the stories I want to tell, the ones I need to tell and share. And as I find them, I’ll be searching for the words to do it right.
I started writing when I was 12. This first attempt was short-lived. Someone – I forget who it was - gave me a diary, and I thought I should give writing a shot. That was, after all, the point of having a diary, right? I didn’t get very far. I ended up with just one prosaic entry of the “Dear Diary” variety. I didn’t yet have much to say.
Then, in high school, I fell in love. Exploding with yearning and grappling with feelings I hadn’t experienced before, I turned to poetry as an outlet. I still have the worn green spiral notebook with every poem that I wrote. Despite the fact that the great majority of my high school poems are not very good, for me they are epic simply because they are windows into my high school mind:
I sit here drunk and smelling/of her/I feel her lips pressed against mine/still/I sit here quiet and cold/warm because she’s with me/cold because she’s gone
Through my early poetry attempts, I learned that writing could be a container in which to pour my overflowing emotions, a vehicle to try to capture and mark new and powerful feelings, a way to try to understand myself in the context of the world.
In college and then after, my writing turned to a sort of personal travel journalism. I diligently cataloged my trip to Israel during my freshman year and two backpacking adventures through Europe, one in the summer after college and the other two years later before law school. These trips were my first tastes of the bigness of life - and I wanted to savor every bit. My journals were my attempt to stitch together the smells, tastes, and adventures with the rich characters I met along the way:
In Prague: “The skies opened up and it poured – thunder, lightning, and drenching rain. Dan was our leader, map in hand, sniffing a scent, darting under overhangs until he found the restaurant. This guy was super boy-scout man, adding to the legend of Danforth the tracker. We walked downstairs, thru dark corridors. The place was like a cave. Each table had pulley lamps hanging low.”
In Brugges, Belgium: “We all sat and drank beers. At midnite, the group of us went for a walk amongst the canals. It was late, but I still had all this weird energy. We ended up sitting by the windmills near this clicking traffic light on a canal a block from Bauhaus, talking about religion, education, music, the United States, New Zealand, politics, and swapping stories from our travels and college days.”
More recently, when I lived abroad in Japan with my wife and two kids, I again took up the travel journalism, this time via a blog that – when we printed it out – had mushroomed to the size of two hardcover coffee table books. I wrote almost every day; it made me think about where I was and what I was doing, about what mattered, what was funny, what was touching, what was the crux of our life experience. Now, “The Blog” serves as my memory of our time abroad, my impressions and thoughts safely tucked inside the digital amber. Reading my entries six years later is like plugging into The Matrix, sucked backwards in time and space, senses rekindled, thoughts retraced, the thrill of new friendships and of exploring new places brought back again. Anais Nin said, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” It’s like that.
To that point my writings had been for myself, but as I grew more comfortable with my writing and myself – and in keeping with my obsessive need to share thoughts, feelings, songs, and newspaper articles - I became more social about it. For this burning need to share, I blame my mother; the seeds planted by the dozens of articles my mother would clip, underline, circle and send to me. So it was natural that sharing my stories, both real or made up, would become a reason for writing.
As a reader, I’ve always been an obsessive underliner, bracketer, and highlighter, scratching notes in the margins, double exclamation points, getting turned on at good writing, the kind of writing that resonated deep inside. As I’ve grown older, in an impossible quest to hold all this goodness close, I have become a collector of quotes. I have stockpile them in a massive list that when someday someone finds will say something – who knows what – about me. Some say that quotes are lazy – “those who can’t write, quote”? Not me. A good quote is a perfect self-contained piece of art painted from words that captures a universal truth, a feeling we all know, a sunset.
Here is a favorite one, from Neil Gaiman, about how we all have stories inside of us: “Every one has a secret world inside them . . . Everyone. Unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Thousands.” It’s a powerful thought.
I’ve now gotten the point where I have stories that I want to tell. I’ve starting playing with short stories – a mix of fiction and memoir-ish life moments. A good story conjures, connects, and captures something about the human condition and expresses it in a compelling way. As one of my favorite authors, Haruki Murakami, said: "A story . . . is not something you create. It is something that you pull out of yourself. The story is already there, inside you.” I’m fascinated by that concept.
I’ll be continuing my search for the stories I want to tell, the ones I need to tell and share. And as I find them, I’ll be searching for the words to do it right.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Music - Covering The Script's Breakeven
(Even pop) music can capture the deepest of our innermost feelings, the ones where when we're having them it feels like we're the only ones having them, but actually are universal, shared across people, no matter their place or time.
The best songs are about those universal feelings and situations.
These past few days, I've been listening a lot to the song Breakeven, by The Script. It falls in that category.
It's about a break-up, where the guy is "falling to pieces," because he's still in love with her, and she has moved on. Sounds trite. The lyrics alone aren't breathtaking, and the music is by no means complex or deeply original (a repeating pattern of four simple chords). But the combination of the lead singer's voice with the simple guitar strum and . . . the universality of that feeling. . . it just works:
I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing
Just prayed to a God that I don't believe in
'Cause I got time while she got freedom
'Cause when a heart breaks, no, it don't break even
Her best days were some of my worst
She finally met a man that's gonna put her first
While I'm wide awake she's no trouble sleeping
'Cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even... even... no
What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you?
And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up and you're OK?
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces
Late last night, I was listening to music while doing some reading and searching online, and I came across a treasure-trove of covers of Breakeven. (Though admittedly I hadn't thought about it too much, these days I'm sure there are people covering every popular song.).
Men, women, girls, and boys.
All ages.
From all around the world.
Musically, some are great and others are terrible. But I enjoyed almost all of them.
Playing guitar, alone in their bedrooms. They are simple musical renderings of a shared emotion, a feeling we have in common, video recorded and then placed out there for all to see:
The best songs are about those universal feelings and situations.
These past few days, I've been listening a lot to the song Breakeven, by The Script. It falls in that category.
It's about a break-up, where the guy is "falling to pieces," because he's still in love with her, and she has moved on. Sounds trite. The lyrics alone aren't breathtaking, and the music is by no means complex or deeply original (a repeating pattern of four simple chords). But the combination of the lead singer's voice with the simple guitar strum and . . . the universality of that feeling. . . it just works:
I'm still alive but I'm barely breathing
Just prayed to a God that I don't believe in
'Cause I got time while she got freedom
'Cause when a heart breaks, no, it don't break even
Her best days were some of my worst
She finally met a man that's gonna put her first
While I'm wide awake she's no trouble sleeping
'Cause when a heart breaks no it don't break even... even... no
What am I supposed to do when the best part of me was always you?
And what am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up and you're OK?
I'm falling to pieces, yeah,
I'm falling to pieces
Late last night, I was listening to music while doing some reading and searching online, and I came across a treasure-trove of covers of Breakeven. (Though admittedly I hadn't thought about it too much, these days I'm sure there are people covering every popular song.).
Men, women, girls, and boys.
All ages.
From all around the world.
Musically, some are great and others are terrible. But I enjoyed almost all of them.
Playing guitar, alone in their bedrooms. They are simple musical renderings of a shared emotion, a feeling we have in common, video recorded and then placed out there for all to see:
Thursday, August 14, 2014
On Depression. Mine.
I started this blog because I wanted to try my hand at storytelling - fiction and poetry.
But it was more than that. I also wanted to - no, I viscerally needed to - tell the story of me at my lowest and most frightened place.
And I did.
I called it Introduction to Alone. You can read it on this blog in a handful of posts that began with this one and continued in the posts that follow it.
It was non-fiction, a true story. About a severe battle with depression. Mine.
The worst episode happened last year, when I hit rock bottom and almost didn't come back. When I wanted to "disappear." When my pain built and built and built until I was so overcome with hopelessness and anguish that I tried to take action to ease the pain. When I ended up in the hospital, confused and alone and terrified.
Introduction to Alone was a raw description of my experience down at the bottom. It was not a pleasant story. I set it down on paper because I needed to pin down my depression, to remember it, to examine it, to try and figure out that part of me. It was a first step.
I later published Introduction to Alone anonymously with an online magazine as a single article. This time, I added a short epilogue where I began to reflect on depression:
In the not-too-distant past, I was one of those people that believed that there is no such thing as depression. That everyone gets sad. That it was a cop out. A sign of weakness, by those who can’t cope. I was wrong. As I experienced, its real. Very real. Over a period of months, I became absolutely paralyzed. Every day was too much. Everything shut down. I couldn’t write. And I couldn’t think, except for the cycling fears and the anxieties. I wouldn’t interact with those around me. I didn’t want to be around anymore. This piece was written in an attempt to share the feelings and thoughts I had during this period, the lowest period of my life, the nadir (or perhaps the culmination?) of my battle with depression....
Coming to terms with my depression has been incredibly difficult.
I didn't begin having periods of depression until about five years ago. The truth is, I still feel confused about why it happened. I still feel shame about it. I still often feel that it's "not me," and that it makes me a weaker person. I question why this happens to me, what is wrong with me.
In these past five years, I have had recurring "episodes" that vary in intensity and length. Sometimes they last for months. Some of these episodes - like the one last year - have been cripplingly paralyzing and excruciating on a day-to-day and minute-to-minute level. They seem to be triggered when a number of stressers occur at the same time, situations that seem impossible, that I can't think my way out of. Perhaps it's my mind powerfully saying "I don't like this," but at the same time not seeing a path forward. So it rebels. I'm not sure.
What does it feel like?
Being depressed is the most lonely feeling in the world. It's almost like an auto-immune disease of the mind. You turn on yourself. You tell yourself you are worthless, you are ugly. The brain simply shuts down and takes with it the centers that you use to make decisions, to be funny, to be interesting, to feel love, to see beauty, to experience joy. It's full on lethargy, and a powerful malaise takes over. It's absolutely exhausting, both physically and mentally.
I withdraw completely from friendships.
It's hard to motivate myself to do anything.
I can't check emails without great fear and anxiety.
I cannot make even the most basic of decisions.
And it builds on itself; undone tasks stack up, as time passes it gets harder and harder to reach out to friends, harder even to get out of bed. Even though I know its illogical, even though I know I should reach out to friends, stop procrastinating, exercise, do the things that make me happy, I simply can't. Worse still, when I am in its clutches and those around me try to help by suggesting I do all those things, the fact that I can't makes me feel even more hopeless, more worthless. It's a loneliness feedback loop, and there seems no way out.
And then it just stops. For me, coming out of depressive periods happens suddently and for no apparent reason. It's not like I have all these wonderful tools and use them to work my way out of it. Nope. I just hold on for dear life until it ends. And it does. When it's ready, the fog lifts, the sky clears, and I feel strong and energetic, creative, playful, sharp, and intellectually curious. I feel "myself" again. Within a few days. Thank God.
Before this, I didn't believe depression was a real thing. I thought it was just people who were really sad. I didn't understand that it's not an unhappiness, but a hostile take-over then suffocation of your mind, a constant feeling of being overwhelmed by every aspect of every day.
This past year, I've been thinking and reading a lot about depression. The many articles and videos have shown me that the feelings I experienced that were so devastating are not unique to me. Others know what it feels like.
Among the best discussions on the topic is a TED Talk by Andrew Solomon in which he describes his depression, his conversations with others about their depression, and his thoughts about depression. It's called Depression, the secret we share, and its worth reading the transcript in full. In it he said:
"The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality, and it was vitality that seemed to seep away from me in that moment."
The powerful grip of depression was also captured all too well by the brilliant author David Foster Wallace, who himself suffered from depression. David Foster Wallace committed suicide in 2008:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will ...kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Yes. That's what it felt like.
I was inspired to write this post by the death by suicide of Robin Williams last week. He was dealing with acute depression. As with many of us, it hit me hard for a number of reasons.
Williams was a comedic dynnamo and incredibly talented actor who was ingrained in our collective consciousness. Williams was a genius, a virtuoso. His frenetic energy was palpable and delicious, a one-of-a-kind mind zooming forward and then making impossible hairpin turns at a million miles an hour. ("Are you thinking faster than the rest of us? What the hell is going on!?"). He was a unique talent in every sense of both words. He was also genuinely kind, caring, and gentle man. For all these reasons, he had a unique ability to bring happiness to so many people. You couldn't help but to smile around him, and usually you had to laugh out loud.
The juxtaposition of his happiness and vitality with his deep private struggle and deep depression is difficult to comprehend, and darkly sad. As many noted, the "joke" about Pagliacci the clown from the graphic novel, The Watchmen, poignantly captures the seeming paradox of Robin Williams:
A man goes to see a doctor. Doctor asks what seems to be the trouble.
The man says, "Doc, I'm depressed. Simply, I can't sleep sometimes, I can't eat, I feel down and irritable most days. I just can't feel 'happy.'"
The Doctor says, "I've got the perfect fix for you. In town tonight is the great clown Pagliacci. He's hysterically funny and will make you laugh til you cry. You will experience a joy unprecedented."
The man bursts into tears. The doctor, confused asks why. "Doc, I am Pagliacci."
It emphasizes that depression is all too often a lonely and private struggle.
Robin Williams' death and the resulting discussion of depression and suicide took me back to my own depression. This was both bad and good.
Bad, because it was a dark time, and it was not a long time ago. Because when I look back I can hardly believe it was me, but I also know it is me. That's uncomfortable.
Good, because much of the talk about depression lined up with how I felt. Because there were so many people -- SO many -- talking about their own depression who "got it," who understood, and so many others who spoke with such compassion and love. In fact, hearing other people describe their own battles with depression, hearing people describe what it feels like, and hearing people describe their feelings about depression, was amazingly therapeutic. It felt good not to be alone, to know that there are so many people out there who understand.
The public outpouring that followed Williams' death not only celebrated his life and expressed a deep need to understand and help others deal with depression. There were so many eloquent and beautifully conveyed pieces on depression, on what it means, what it feels like, on what it is and isn't. Some of the thoughts and posts that moved me:
I'm learning that depression is part of me. Andrew Solomon has gone even further. He has found a way to go beyond acceptance and to see beauty in his depression:
I hate the fact that I can get overwhelmed to the point that my body and mind shut down; that I can feel it coming but I still can't stop it. I hate that when I'm in it, my brain feels so slow and fuzzy; God is that terrifying. I hate that it's wholly irrational yet all encompassing. That it's impossibly hard to have a simple conversation. That nothing brings any joy. And that there is nothing but an overwhelming urge to do nothing.
But I have accepted it. Through this, I have learned more about who I am. I know myself more deeply, and I recognize that I have light and also darkness. And that they fit together in some weird way. I am richly complicated. We all are. And this makes me feel more whole.
Though I hope to never go through another episode, having been through this, in a strange way, also makes me feel more alive. It has forced me to be more in touch with my emotions. I feel like I've grown, like my focus on what's important and what matters to me is sharper.
I have also learned through this that the best thing we can do is to be open about it and be kind to each other. To watch our friends and our loved ones. To support each other. To be patiently loving. At first glance this may sound like a platitude, like some pollyanna, kumba-ya notion. It's not. Depression or not, that's truly what its all about.
I can't tell you how many people I have been open with this past year about my depression only to find out that they too have been through it or are struggling with it. They are so empathetic, so caring, because they know what its like. And it's not only others suffering from depression, but friends who simply understand the need for patience, kindness, and love. Who know they can't just tell you to "get happy," "enjoy life," or"snap out of it." Who stick with you, who reach out persistently, even when you seem to fade away.
That has been incredibly soothing. It has let me know that I'm not alone, that others have been through this same thing, felt these feelings.
Finally, this experience has also made me more sensitive and aware of the pain we all carry. Everyone. We all carry pain. We all carry sadness. We all get confused. We all struggle.
David Foster Wallace captured this aspect of our humanity so well:
Being sensitive to the pain and needs of others, makes me feel more human. It makes me feel more connected to the world; not less.
When you think about it, that's really incredible. Because that feeling of connection, it's the exact opposite of loneliness. That this feeling can spring from the ultimate loneliness and pain of depression is hopeful, invigorating and impossibly delicious.
(An edited version of this post has been published anonymously with The Good Men Project, and is available here.)
But it was more than that. I also wanted to - no, I viscerally needed to - tell the story of me at my lowest and most frightened place.
I called it Introduction to Alone. You can read it on this blog in a handful of posts that began with this one and continued in the posts that follow it.
It was non-fiction, a true story. About a severe battle with depression. Mine.
The worst episode happened last year, when I hit rock bottom and almost didn't come back. When I wanted to "disappear." When my pain built and built and built until I was so overcome with hopelessness and anguish that I tried to take action to ease the pain. When I ended up in the hospital, confused and alone and terrified.
Introduction to Alone was a raw description of my experience down at the bottom. It was not a pleasant story. I set it down on paper because I needed to pin down my depression, to remember it, to examine it, to try and figure out that part of me. It was a first step.
I later published Introduction to Alone anonymously with an online magazine as a single article. This time, I added a short epilogue where I began to reflect on depression:
In the not-too-distant past, I was one of those people that believed that there is no such thing as depression. That everyone gets sad. That it was a cop out. A sign of weakness, by those who can’t cope. I was wrong. As I experienced, its real. Very real. Over a period of months, I became absolutely paralyzed. Every day was too much. Everything shut down. I couldn’t write. And I couldn’t think, except for the cycling fears and the anxieties. I wouldn’t interact with those around me. I didn’t want to be around anymore. This piece was written in an attempt to share the feelings and thoughts I had during this period, the lowest period of my life, the nadir (or perhaps the culmination?) of my battle with depression....
* * *
Coming to terms with my depression has been incredibly difficult.
I didn't begin having periods of depression until about five years ago. The truth is, I still feel confused about why it happened. I still feel shame about it. I still often feel that it's "not me," and that it makes me a weaker person. I question why this happens to me, what is wrong with me.
In these past five years, I have had recurring "episodes" that vary in intensity and length. Sometimes they last for months. Some of these episodes - like the one last year - have been cripplingly paralyzing and excruciating on a day-to-day and minute-to-minute level. They seem to be triggered when a number of stressers occur at the same time, situations that seem impossible, that I can't think my way out of. Perhaps it's my mind powerfully saying "I don't like this," but at the same time not seeing a path forward. So it rebels. I'm not sure.
What does it feel like?
Being depressed is the most lonely feeling in the world. It's almost like an auto-immune disease of the mind. You turn on yourself. You tell yourself you are worthless, you are ugly. The brain simply shuts down and takes with it the centers that you use to make decisions, to be funny, to be interesting, to feel love, to see beauty, to experience joy. It's full on lethargy, and a powerful malaise takes over. It's absolutely exhausting, both physically and mentally.
I withdraw completely from friendships.
It's hard to motivate myself to do anything.
I can't check emails without great fear and anxiety.
I cannot make even the most basic of decisions.
And it builds on itself; undone tasks stack up, as time passes it gets harder and harder to reach out to friends, harder even to get out of bed. Even though I know its illogical, even though I know I should reach out to friends, stop procrastinating, exercise, do the things that make me happy, I simply can't. Worse still, when I am in its clutches and those around me try to help by suggesting I do all those things, the fact that I can't makes me feel even more hopeless, more worthless. It's a loneliness feedback loop, and there seems no way out.
And then it just stops. For me, coming out of depressive periods happens suddently and for no apparent reason. It's not like I have all these wonderful tools and use them to work my way out of it. Nope. I just hold on for dear life until it ends. And it does. When it's ready, the fog lifts, the sky clears, and I feel strong and energetic, creative, playful, sharp, and intellectually curious. I feel "myself" again. Within a few days. Thank God.
* * *
Before this, I didn't believe depression was a real thing. I thought it was just people who were really sad. I didn't understand that it's not an unhappiness, but a hostile take-over then suffocation of your mind, a constant feeling of being overwhelmed by every aspect of every day.
This past year, I've been thinking and reading a lot about depression. The many articles and videos have shown me that the feelings I experienced that were so devastating are not unique to me. Others know what it feels like.
Among the best discussions on the topic is a TED Talk by Andrew Solomon in which he describes his depression, his conversations with others about their depression, and his thoughts about depression. It's called Depression, the secret we share, and its worth reading the transcript in full. In it he said:
"The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality, and it was vitality that seemed to seep away from me in that moment."
The powerful grip of depression was also captured all too well by the brilliant author David Foster Wallace, who himself suffered from depression. David Foster Wallace committed suicide in 2008:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will ...kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Yes. That's what it felt like.
* * *
I was inspired to write this post by the death by suicide of Robin Williams last week. He was dealing with acute depression. As with many of us, it hit me hard for a number of reasons.
Williams was a comedic dynnamo and incredibly talented actor who was ingrained in our collective consciousness. Williams was a genius, a virtuoso. His frenetic energy was palpable and delicious, a one-of-a-kind mind zooming forward and then making impossible hairpin turns at a million miles an hour. ("Are you thinking faster than the rest of us? What the hell is going on!?"). He was a unique talent in every sense of both words. He was also genuinely kind, caring, and gentle man. For all these reasons, he had a unique ability to bring happiness to so many people. You couldn't help but to smile around him, and usually you had to laugh out loud.
The juxtaposition of his happiness and vitality with his deep private struggle and deep depression is difficult to comprehend, and darkly sad. As many noted, the "joke" about Pagliacci the clown from the graphic novel, The Watchmen, poignantly captures the seeming paradox of Robin Williams:
A man goes to see a doctor. Doctor asks what seems to be the trouble.
The man says, "Doc, I'm depressed. Simply, I can't sleep sometimes, I can't eat, I feel down and irritable most days. I just can't feel 'happy.'"
The Doctor says, "I've got the perfect fix for you. In town tonight is the great clown Pagliacci. He's hysterically funny and will make you laugh til you cry. You will experience a joy unprecedented."
The man bursts into tears. The doctor, confused asks why. "Doc, I am Pagliacci."
It emphasizes that depression is all too often a lonely and private struggle.
* * *
Robin Williams' death and the resulting discussion of depression and suicide took me back to my own depression. This was both bad and good.
Bad, because it was a dark time, and it was not a long time ago. Because when I look back I can hardly believe it was me, but I also know it is me. That's uncomfortable.
Good, because much of the talk about depression lined up with how I felt. Because there were so many people -- SO many -- talking about their own depression who "got it," who understood, and so many others who spoke with such compassion and love. In fact, hearing other people describe their own battles with depression, hearing people describe what it feels like, and hearing people describe their feelings about depression, was amazingly therapeutic. It felt good not to be alone, to know that there are so many people out there who understand.
The public outpouring that followed Williams' death not only celebrated his life and expressed a deep need to understand and help others deal with depression. There were so many eloquent and beautifully conveyed pieces on depression, on what it means, what it feels like, on what it is and isn't. Some of the thoughts and posts that moved me:
- "Twitter was full of people saying things like, "If you know someone who's depressed, hug them! Love them! Don't let this happen to them!" But like practically any topic, depression and suicide is something that takes more than 140 characters or a hug to fix. I have an incredibly loving family, many fabulous friends and a job that's a dream come true. I could have 100 hugs a day if I wanted them. None of that stops me from being depressed...There's no single weapon—positive thinking, faith, shock treatment, yoga, medication, hugs—that can vanquish depression on its own ... I don't need your pity; I don't want a hug. (No, really, don't hug me.) But depression needs to be acknowledged—and respected, because it's a powerful, tricky opponent that's bigger than us all. Still, our individual battles against it are worth fighting. I know that, because I'm here, writing this column, and today, I feel happy about that." - Rachel Piper
- "Suffering from mental illness is not an issue of willpower. It does not respond to a desire to be different or be rid of it. It has nothing to do with how much someone does or doesn't want to be a normal, productive member of society. Depression doesn't go away through "finding laughter" or even meaning in life...Social stigma is still so powerful, most continue to suffer in silence..." - Bill Walsh
- "Yesterday, like millions of others, I had to stop and catch my breath when I heard the news of Robin Williams’s tragic and untimely death. How could a man who filled us with so much joy be filled, himself, with so much pain that he chose to take his own life? What caused him to feel so desperate and helpless that the only option was to commit an unthinkable act that would ultimately stop his pain and suffering? I looked at the endless stream of photos and videos of him on all the social media outlets and did not find a hint, behind his infectious trademark smile, as to how deeply he suffered. None of us did. Because depression is a secret that no one wants to talk about. And it is my dirty little secret too...People often think that those of us who suffer from depression are downers who have difficulty functioning in everyday life. These are just some of the myths that create stigmas and often prevent people from being honest about their own mental illness. For me, the truth is I function very well and, most often, I am pretty upbeat—typically the life of the party. And no, I am not bipolar. I simply am not depressed every single day. But when I go down, I go down hard. And once I am down, it is very hard to get back up...The darkness was so severe and so intense that I could not see my way to clarity. I did not think the clouds would ever pass, that the winds would ever let up or that the rain would stop pouring down. But, as is always the case with storms, they do pass and the sun shines through the clouds offering the hope for a brighter tomorrow." - Tammy Palazzo
* * *
I'm learning that depression is part of me. Andrew Solomon has gone even further. He has found a way to go beyond acceptance and to see beauty in his depression:
- "The question is not so much of finding great meaning and deciding your depression has been very meaningful. It's of seeking that meaning and thinking, when it comes again,"This will be hellish, but I will learn something from it." I have learned in my own depression how big an emotion can be,how it can be more real than facts,and I have found that that experience has allowed me to experience positive emotion in a more intense and more focused way....I think that while I hated being depressed and would hate to be depressed again, I've found a way to love my depression. I love it because it has forced me to find and cling to joy. I love it because each day I decide, sometimes gamely, and sometimes against the moment's reason, to cleave to the reasons for living. And that, I think, is a highly privileged rapture."
I hate the fact that I can get overwhelmed to the point that my body and mind shut down; that I can feel it coming but I still can't stop it. I hate that when I'm in it, my brain feels so slow and fuzzy; God is that terrifying. I hate that it's wholly irrational yet all encompassing. That it's impossibly hard to have a simple conversation. That nothing brings any joy. And that there is nothing but an overwhelming urge to do nothing.
But I have accepted it. Through this, I have learned more about who I am. I know myself more deeply, and I recognize that I have light and also darkness. And that they fit together in some weird way. I am richly complicated. We all are. And this makes me feel more whole.
Though I hope to never go through another episode, having been through this, in a strange way, also makes me feel more alive. It has forced me to be more in touch with my emotions. I feel like I've grown, like my focus on what's important and what matters to me is sharper.
I have also learned through this that the best thing we can do is to be open about it and be kind to each other. To watch our friends and our loved ones. To support each other. To be patiently loving. At first glance this may sound like a platitude, like some pollyanna, kumba-ya notion. It's not. Depression or not, that's truly what its all about.
I can't tell you how many people I have been open with this past year about my depression only to find out that they too have been through it or are struggling with it. They are so empathetic, so caring, because they know what its like. And it's not only others suffering from depression, but friends who simply understand the need for patience, kindness, and love. Who know they can't just tell you to "get happy," "enjoy life," or"snap out of it." Who stick with you, who reach out persistently, even when you seem to fade away.
That has been incredibly soothing. It has let me know that I'm not alone, that others have been through this same thing, felt these feelings.
Finally, this experience has also made me more sensitive and aware of the pain we all carry. Everyone. We all carry pain. We all carry sadness. We all get confused. We all struggle.
David Foster Wallace captured this aspect of our humanity so well:
- “The next suitable person you’re in light conversation with, you stop suddenly in the middle of the conversation and look at the person closely and say, “What’s wrong?” You say it in a concerned way. He’ll say, “What do you mean?” You say, “Something’s wrong. I can tell. What is it?” And he’ll look stunned and say, “How did you know?” He doesn’t realize something’s always wrong, with everybody. Often more than one thing. He doesn’t know everybody’s always going around all the time with something wrong and believing they’re exerting great willpower and control to keep other people, for whom they think nothing’s ever wrong, from seeing it.”
Being sensitive to the pain and needs of others, makes me feel more human. It makes me feel more connected to the world; not less.
When you think about it, that's really incredible. Because that feeling of connection, it's the exact opposite of loneliness. That this feeling can spring from the ultimate loneliness and pain of depression is hopeful, invigorating and impossibly delicious.
(An edited version of this post has been published anonymously with The Good Men Project, and is available here.)
Thursday, June 19, 2014
But I Would Not Feel So All Alone...
People either get you or they don't.
Like in this book I just finished, the woman the main character falls in love with describes listening to Bob Dylan as being "like a kid standing at the window watching the rain."
Later, he mentions Dylan to another woman he is with. She doesn't know him. So he starts to tell her, "He's like, standing at the window, watching the rain," but then he drops it. I imagine his voice trailing off as he sighs deeply: "He's a singer with a rough voice."
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Out of Phase
(Midlife) Crisis is when the you that you are doesn't line up with the you that you thought you were.
Ain't no sports car gonna fix that.
Ain't no sports car gonna fix that.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Life's Funny
It's so funny that as I sit there paralyzed, worried that I am going to do something that takes apart my world, it splits apart before my eyes. Imploding from the inside out, everything that used to be me, collapses into fine shards of broken glass. It's not haha funny, of course, but funny, strange. You know what? It's not even strange. Just sad. Just cruel.
And after this long, there is no hope of getting unbroken. None. Eggshell everywhere. Like Humpty Dumpty.
"Life isn't fair." That's what my Mom always used to tell me. But I know she didn't mean like this. She couldn't have.
No fair.
And after this long, there is no hope of getting unbroken. None. Eggshell everywhere. Like Humpty Dumpty.
* * *
Held down underwater in the town pool. No one else is there, and the water's cold. I stretch out my arms and legs, to get away, to surface, to live. But everywhichway I swim, I push myself deeper down. How is this possible?!? What to do, but laugh? But underwater, it doesn't even sound like laughter. And at any rate, why am I even laughing? None of it is funny. Not to mention that it makes it harder to breathe.
* * *
How is this fair? "Life isn't fair." That's what my Mom always used to tell me. But I know she didn't mean like this. She couldn't have.
No fair.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Are you Happy Now?!
His happiness was the heavy kind,
bogged down
tugged at by a persistent sadness.
“Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That's its balance.”
― Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
bogged down
tugged at by a persistent sadness.
“Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That's its balance.”
― Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
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