Yesterday's Mothers’ Day started with the sighting of an eviscerated rat on the deck, courtesy of formerly hapless cat that had its inner hunter awakened. The day ended with a lovely potted orchid and an amazingly sweet card, courtesy of a son formerly too taciturn to bother with such sentimental crap. And yet, this son, in his consistent unique way, whether in this instance prodded by guilt or inspired by a sudden insight into the quotidian aspect of human interactions in the suburbs, ended up being the only one to acknowledge the day with such niceties!
In between the morning of death's calling card at the door and the evening of tender blooms, there was a side trip to Davis, CA, to hang out with family about to move half way across the country. We ate lunch at a University cafeteria. This being Davis, there was plenty of organic and healthy choices to be had, from the strictly vegan to the lax vegetarian. Of course there were the burgers and fries (and what good fries, too) for the troop of children in our group. After lunch we meandered, somewhat dazed in the heat, with the crowds at the “hippie fest,” or the 40th Whole Earth Festival.
I tire easily from too much sensory input even in mild weather. After a while, the rows of booths hawking their wears appeared to blend into the same set of jewelry and T-shirts at every stop, so, to prevent both sunburn and sensory burnout I just parked myself in the shade and watched the belly dancer and the flamenco dancer show off what they had -- which was quite a bit.
After we got back home to Marin and I finished with chores, my yoga practice, and the mental prep of facing yet another workweek, I settled into bed to read Daphne Merkin’s essay in the New York Times Magazine in which she wrote about her ongoing struggle with a particular nasty variant of depression. The piece was a fascinating read, given Merkin’s considerable talent with this form, in spite of the ravages of her illness. That psychiatrists in pushing her toward electro-shock therapy threatened her with the loss of her ability to write if she didn't comply, seemed like something out of a B movie, though nonetheless horrific for a writer. The fact that she went on to write her piece, without the therapy and certainly not “cured,” makes for another movie, if not for the triumph of hope, at least for a model for living with, and in spite of, a debilitating illness.
I am no stranger to depression myself. Though in my younger days, and in another country,the depression was a cultural icon of sorts as well, in recent years, I finally gave in to the lure of antidepressants. The pills I was given seemed magically effective at smoothing the rough seas I seemed to navigate on the seas of social interactions. Unfortunately, they also seemed more than magically effective at anchoring that vessel of words, my creative side, which, though it got tossed and turned in the stormy waters, managed to provide me with both thrills and shelter at the same time. And so I wondered in the "normal" world for a while, like Alice in Wonderland, amazed at how small my troubles got, and how big ordinary life could grow without inflicting any damage on my shrunken psyche.
For me, when I finally made the decision to get out of Wonderland, going off the meds was a long process, unlike what Merkin was subjected to in her hospitalization. During my slow, six months of de-pilling, I also ramped up my yoga practice and went for acupuncture treatments. Even with all these measures, and months after I stopped taking my meds, the boat of language still wouldn’t sail, let alone rock me. I was beginning to think that I had sustained permanent brain damage from either the meds themselves or from havig gone off them.
Then, yesterday morning, a few days after it looked like the sun was finally going to hang around, I woke up itching to write. The anchor seemed to have loosened, and a few words soon formed themselves into a few pages that explore the beginning of my silence. It’s ironic that the day should have ended with a reading of Merkin’s piece. In the old days, in my more depressed moments, or during the height of my medicated days, I would have said this: What’s the point of my writing about depression when Merkin, both more depressed and more talented (not to mention more successful) has done such a great job of it already?
The depressed me would have reached for wine or chocolate. Anything to sweeten the rising bitterness. The medicated me would have done yoga for another hour or so, trading a deeper insight for a deeper bend from the hips. But this me is at the computer writing. Still. Later, she will go for yoga, but only for her regular practice. And afterwards, she migh have some chocolate, but probably only a piece (oh, OK, maybe two), but not the whole bar. Then, she’ll keep writing the piece she is working on, because, to use an old cliche, with apologies to Tolstoy, happy people are all alike; every unhappy person is unhappy in his own way.
