Getting Back Up

You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting anything lately, breaking my intention to post twice a week for the whole of the year. This was not from lack of material; in fact I have several essays waiting in the wings, and more still waiting to be edited, but the pipeline has ground to a halt.

There’s a simple reason, and a familiar one for all who know me well: depression.

Depression isn’t quite the same as sadness, which could be cheered up; depression makes everything harder, including being happy. So easy tasks become difficult, difficult tasks become hard, and then the work backlog kicks in. Nor does it work to be cheered up, though it doesn’t really hurt; the problem with depression is not that I’m walking backward, but that I can’t walk.

Depression is also tidal. I took on the blog project at high water, and like many of my projects begun at such times, it suffered when my mind’s tide turned.

I’ve dealt with my mental illness for a long time. I’ve had the “black dog on my shoulder” since I was a small child, at least; I remember walking around my old neighborhood feeling desperately unhappy about nothing in particular. Some days I can pull myself out of it, or push myself through it; other times I need help from outside, and I’ve gotten it from many excellent friends; sometimes there’s just nothing to be done about it until it goes away on its own. Sometimes it passes in a day or two; sometimes it eats whole months. I don’t remember much of September 2007, for instance, or March 2011, and there’s nothing good in what I can recall. Sometimes my illness leads me to self-harm, though I’ve avoided that for three years and counting.

But even when I’m depressed, I’m still a depressed teacher, and here are a few of the lessons I’m trying to draw from this latest round with with the traitor in my head.

One of the constant whispers in my ears, one of the mental assaults that I am so frequently fighting off, is that I am powerless. That nothing I do will matter. That I am alone.

Thing is, that’s not altogether wrong… if the third one is true. In this world no one can make it alone. This means two things worth remembering: one, those who have made it didn’t do it on their own, and two, anyone can have power when they join with others. A comedy duo was once asked, “Do you think one person can really make a difference?” They replied, “Of course not. That’s why there are two of us.”

If you’re alone, then yes, you’re powerless. But you don’t have to be alone.

Because so many people feel alone, it’s worth asking why they do, and I think the answer lies in depression as well. Depression digs us into a hole so deep that we can’t see the people around us. And depression can be taught: psychologists call it learned helplessness. In times like these, many people feel alone and powerless because they have been trying and trying for so long with no real success. So they have learned that anything they try will fail. This is not true, but it’s not foolishness, either. So many people have tried so hard for so long, and because of forces too great for them to control, they have failed. The thing to do is try another way. But the holes that depressed people live in don’t let us see other paths.

So here’s the crucial lesson: keep going. Crawl out of the hole. “Inch toward daylight.”

I’ll be honest: in the long run, I can’t promise that this strategy will succeed. It’s quite possible that nothing we do will matter. Except that trying, in the face of despair, in the face of certain failure, matters a great deal.

I’m getting back on my feet. I’m going to keep writing, even if I’ve already failed at what I set out to do, and even if no one ever hears a word I say. Even if I can’t always walk well, I’m going to keep moving.

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One thought on “Getting Back Up

  1. Thank you for teaching this lesson. Everything you say is true, and “speaks to my condition” as the saying goes.
    Sometimes — only sometimes, but, still, sometimes — when I am lost in that gray fog it helps to read the Book of Job. And Psalm 130. “Depression digs us into a hole so deep we can’t see the people around us” you say, and you’re absolutely right. We isolate ourselves. But even at the bottom of that hole and utterly alone we can cry out to the creator. Even if all we can cry out about is despair or anger. Even if there are no words at all.
    We both know that certain music is deeply healing in this context. And in my getting-close-to-old-age I am discovering that the mere act of moving in some kind of rhythmic way disperses the fog for at least a bit, and physical movement keeping time to something on the guaranteed-to help playlist is even more effective. Music and motion speak to a different part of the brain, maybe. So: the resolution “I’m going to keep moving” is profoundly good in a number of ways.

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