Re: Depression

Jess Anderson, 12 Apr 1994

Douglas J. Wyman wrote: There is no shame in pain, but there is a lot of pain in death.

Like a lot of wise statements, the simplicity of that one masks great profundity.

One of the greater dangers in depression is that it tends to blot out the world outside our skins. This is usually taken by others to be selfishness. But that is a superficial view of things and more likely to worsen rather than to ameliorate the suffering. Depression is above all isolating, and guilt only isolates further.

Rich Will Powers writes: Unfortunately there is quite a lot of shame associated with (especially non-physical) pain in our society. Most people berate anyone with thoughts of suicide.

Exactly so. Unless I misremember, someone said something already about Kurt Cobain being selfish in killing himself. The grain of truth in that judgment further weakens links between the person who is considering suicide and the world, when what one wants to do is strengthen them. Depressed people are not crazy, indeed quite often they are extremely rational about things, with some important exceptions about their place in the world. A depressed person is not the same as a criminal or a child, and the things Rich mentions...

Rich: You're more likely to get insulted, abused, ridiculed, ignored, belittled, avoided, gossiped about, judged, thrown out of school, fired, and/or locked up than helped in any way if you admit to having thoughts of suicide.

... are indeed common. And lethal.

Disclaimer: If I were suicidal I would not want someone who knows nothing about me (or anyone, in fact) to contact "authorities" on my behalf. I value my freedom.

Rightly so. Depressed people want help, a reason to live. When hope is gone, they will move from thinking about it toward doing it. The anaesthetic effects of some drugs, notably alcohol, make it an appealing way of deadening one's pain. But as already noted, adding chemical depression to emotional depression makes the situation far more dangerous. Not only, but it also clouds one's reason.

The miracle about depression, I think, is not that it kills people, but that so many people are not killed by it. If the truth could be measured and told, it could be the leading cause of untimely death.

Helping is imperative, naturally, but far from easy. If possible, professional intervention is the most promising ticket. About all amateurs -- friends and family -- can do is try to talk about reasons to stay alive, about joy and growth and promise and love and freedom from pain. Avoid anything that suggests guilt.

When I turned 40, a remarkable friend who is a gifted writer made a little book as a present for me, called Jess -- 40 Exposures. The title comes from the fact that we had photography as a common interest. He was on the verge of moving away at the time. The book consists of 40 short descriptive vignettes, some of them kind, some very funny, some rather tart (the queen's kung-fu), and some quite poignant.

From that book:

The Nadir
In April of 1973 he came with the Designing Young Man to visit a friend. His movements were strangely sluggish. His speech was alarmingly slurred. He had dosed himself dangerously with a drug to put the distance of a dream between him and the cancer on his spirit. This was the nadir.
How He Was Going to Do It
He was going to accelerate rapidly at the intersection of Park and West Johnson Streets, gather momentum by the time he hit Park and West Dayton, hurtle down the incline approaching the viaduct and smash himself into the thick abutment which divided the lanes.
One Year Later
On April 7, 1974 he strode through a throng in the Elvehjem Art Center and bowed to loud applause. The courtyard was airy and green. He wore white linen and a rose. He was entirely beautiful. The music was controlled and springlike. The color and graciousness of that day were all his color and graciousness -- yellow blossoms, white wine, April sun.
Two Years Later
His friend is young, attractive, cheerful, and bright. He himself is now wolfish, grinning through a mass of glossy beard and hair. He feels rangy and rugged, surely not 40. The unreal Dorian Grey, who was never more than a glossy photograph, has perished. Now there is Mellors, the gamekeeper lying nude in his cottage with his love twining forget-me-nots in the rough of his chest. The odyssey from Wilde to Lawrence, from the De Profundis to the Jubilate, is all but complete. A friend who must leave feels reassured.

Ah, dear Ron, how well he knows me. It's hard to imagine that it was so long ago.

The designing young man (code for landscape architect and elusiveness) over whom I so tormented myself then is now my best friend on earth, but then it was the total pits. The drug was librium, washed down with scotch whisky. The car was a snazzy Opel GT coupe (great car!). The concert was my debut as a harpsichordist; 1,600 people showed up (about 10 times the usual number for those Sunday concerts). The then new boyfriend and I stayed together 3.5 years. He's a painter, lives in San Diego now. Next year he'll be 40, and I'll be 60.

That wasn't, by the way, my last time in the cauldron. At 47 I went through it all over again, maybe worse, because that time there was also massive anxiety on top of the depression. It doesn't pay to tempt fate, so I won't say it could never happen again.

But if you're 20-something and discouraged, take note of the fact that what my friend wrote about took place around the time you were born, yet I'm here to tell you about the joys of living now, and very glad of it.

His Hands
You notice the coolness and smoothness of these hands. Even when he is tormented, the hands keep their repose. The touch is peaceful, firm, and confident. They are trained runners, supple and harmonious. Their dharma is good; they have trained on a series of joys.
His Eyes
Cat's eyes, really.
His Mouth
Heavy artillery. The lips push out in panic, compress in anger. This mouth must serve him in several ways -- as the entrance to the grand ballroom of his mind, as the tent flap to his medicine show, as the happy gateway for immigrants of all descriptions.

Yes, it means just what you think. :-)