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Depression Bums Me Out

Of the maybe four people who will ever read this blog, I doubt any will be surprised to read that I have suffered from "clinical" depression for decades. I came out of the closet a long time ago on this issue (by which I mean to say explicitly that there ARE a variety of issues about which I have not come out of the closet (which is patently untrue; actually I am about as uninteresting as one can be and still be alive)).

That may not seem like a big deal today. It's probably impossible to convey to younger people the stigma that attached in the "good old days" to a variety of personal traits and behaviors that today might be considered only mildly interesting, if that. "He's divorced" was a whispered rumor ... divorce just wasn't done. Well, it was done, actually, but it was thought of as aberrant, and evidence of some kind of failure of character; you know, staying together with someone who is abusive or who detests you was thought of as virtuous ... actually much of life was like that, then. Jobs, religion, patriotism, politics, marriage ... all of these were thought of as one-way commitments to be made in innocence and then suffered through.

Acceptance of homosexuality is still new enough (and far enough from being universal) that the idea that even a hint, in the old days, of homosexual behavior in one's past might be enough to scuttle all chances for promotion, or a mortgage, or participation in a church congregation, or even merest courtesy, is maybe not so much of a stretch.

Depression, too, has very recently been a cause for discrimination, to the extent that anyone with ambitions who was depressed would seek therapy only in exchange for sacrificing his career hopes.

How recently? Recently enough that in 1972 Thomas Eagleton was forced to remove himself from consideration as the vice-presidential nominee of the Democratic Party because of exposure of treatments he had received years earlier for depression.

Not long after that, I finally resigned myself to getting professional help. I had realized for many years that I routinely suffered from depression, but frankly, I was afraid to seek help first because I doubted that it would help, and second I suspected that doing so could imperil my professional life.

But things had reached the point where I knew that I was actually in jeopardy in two ways. First, I was actually frequently suicidal, and second, my behavior when in a depression was damaging my relationships, both personal and professional, more than the anticipated consequences of seeking help might do.

As I have discussed pretty openly with anyone who is interested, seeking help literally changed my life. I don't know if it saved my life ... which is to say that I doubt I have a strong enough will to have actually committed suicide ... but it undoubtledly changed my life for the better. The difference was seen and commented upon by family, friends, and co-corkers. I only regret that I waited so long to pursue it.

One of the things I learned by undergoing therapy is that modern psychotherapy is often strongly rooted in anti-depressant medication, as well as the counseling which constitutes much of the popular image of this therapy. It is helpful for one's self-image to learn that "clinical" depression (that is, recurring or chronic depression as opposed to "circumstantial" depression which is the type of depression that results from depressing life circumstances such as the death of a loved one, and is actually a sign of a healthy mind, although still meritting professional help if it is severe enough to interfere with one's normal life) is often, even usually caused by chemical imbalances in one's brain.

For some reason, bad chemicals inside my head are easier to live with emotionally than bad attitude. It's nice to think that you're not just a whiny weakling, but actually sick. Yay! I'm sick!

I know Tom Cruise and his Thetan buddies think all of this is bogus, but you know what? It works. I have had a nice life since I started treatments. Hell, I have had a life. Screw Tom Cruise.

But properly professional psychotherapy does not live by drugs alone. The therapeutic drug regimen is always (should always be) accompanied by a routine of professional counseling ... you know, 50-minute visits with a bearded older guy in which you lie on a couch and talk smack about your mother while he doodles ideas for his new hot tub gazebo on his legal pad.

So, for over thirty years, I have spend quality time with that older bearded guy. Except, of course, it's not at all like the popular image of therapy sessions.

Actually, my doctor completely fits the typical Hollywood image of a psychotherapist: he's an older, bearded, slightly overweight, slightly greying man, with a swivel chair and a legal pad. Coincidentally, so am I. Hmmm.

As I recall, although both had beards when I started seeing him, I don't think either of us had any grey in our beards or head hair. My doctor had maybe five years on me. After thiry plus years, we both have grey hair, and he still has maybe five years on me.

I can't recall ever lying down during a session, although my doctor does have a sofa long enough to accomodate that if necessary. I have probably mentioned my mother from time to time, and my dad, too, but only rarely, in passing while discussing something else. Really, I have nothing to hide about my feelings about my parents ... like everyone, I have always wanted to kill my mother and ravish my father ... oh wait ... reverse that. Oops, talk about your Freudian slip!

What we talk about mostly is nothing much. I always try to keep track of when and why (if the "why" is discernible) I get depressed. I try to take my medications rigorously, and to be aware of how I am feeling vis-a-vis side effects. As an example, I have been doing this so long that the pharamacology has changed substantially ... the medications I started with caused me dizziness and dry mouth. But still, I took them gratefully because they were very effective in stopping the deep plunges I had experienced prior to starting therapy. More recently, I have been using more modern medications with very few side effects. (Other than their cost, which can be substantial.)

I have learned also that getting depressed about work, politics, money, marital issues, self-image, and so-on, is not "clinical" depression, but the "circumstantial" variety. It's okay, even appropriate to get bummed out about stuff like that, and the medication should not mask such feelings, or it is not the right prescription for you.

But underlying "clinical" depression can escalate such normally-depressing life events into debilitating disasters while depriving you of the ability to cope with them at any level.

Even worse, "clinical" depression occurs when there is nothing apparent in one's life at the time to trigger it. I recognized this in myself when I was in early puberty. I had written (and hidden in my desk at home) a letter of despair to myself. I was startled when, while hiding it, I discovered that I had hidden and forgotten a very similar letter exactly one month prior. I knw then that I was not just unhappy about things that were happening to me, but sick in some way.

I also knew puberty is not really a rational experience, and not, hopefully, representative of what one's life will be like on the long term. So I waited to see if I would grow out of this, and while waiting, I tried to tough it out through bouts of depression so severe that I would frequently stay home from school to avoid having my friends and teachers see me cry for no reason.

But puberty passed, and these feelings did not. That's when I knew I needed help.

As a young adult, I was smart, well-educated, physically okay otherwise, married to a wonderful woman, father of a dleightful little girl. I had opportunity, ambition, and enthusiasms. And yet ....

It was, in fact, the realization that I had all of this, this life that ninety percent or more of the people who were alive in the world, who were ever alive in the world, would be delirious to have, and yet, I was depressed, it was this itself that was depressing. I felt undeserving. I was and am undeserving of such a good life. And I get depressed about being depressed when I am so blessed.

Is that wacky or what?

So that's what I have talked about with my therapist for thirty years.

I suffer from grace.

Grace is the receipt of undeserved good. Anyone can dispense it, but it always shows the hand of God.

So for hours on end, my thrapist and I have discussed grace, and Grace, and why I struggle so to accept it and enjoy it a thrive on its fruits and thereby come to deserve it.

Which is impossible, of course, because grace, and especially Grace, is by definition undeserved good. And God knows, I don't deserve the good life I've lived.

I'm grateful. Beyond grateful. I am overwhelmed by the bounty, and I just feel guilty basking in the good fortune that placed me in this time and place, with these loving people. And it terribly, existentially depressing to feel depressed while endowed with these gifts.

My depression is under control, I'm no danger to myself, but I don't fool myself into thinking that I am "cured." I know from my ongoing ruminations about grace and Grace (they are the same, these two) that I will never be cured. I will die with thanks and guilt about my fortunate life together on my lips.

Surfeit of Grace
© Mike Riley 2002

Grace is not something you have,
But something you are given.
By its nature, grace is unbidden.
By its nature, grace is undeserved.

Grace: undeserved good fortune.
So grace can be measured
Not only in terms of the gift,
But by the nature of the recipient.

A gracious gift
Received by the ungrateful
Is all the more gracious
For that.

A gracious gift
Received by the unworthy
Is all the more precious
For that.

I look about, and see plenty.
I look about, and see friends.
I look about and see good fortune,
And I am humbled.

I am weary of the burden
Of Grace.

I am weary of being undeserving.
I am weary of being unworthy.
I am weary of being ungrateful.
And the gifts are the more gracious for that.

I would give the gifts to others:
I would give the gifts to the more deserving;
I would give the gifts to the more appreciative;
I would give the gifts to the more needy.

So I am not as gracious as my benefactor,
Who dispenses grace without regard.

So I am an ingrate to the gracious.
So I am a victim of plenty.
Punished by guilt
For the gifts I did not seek.

I turn and look back,
And I see a road of toil,
And little to show.
I turn and look back,
And see a landscape of plenty,
Not of my making.

My place.
My heart.
My good fortune.
Given, not earned.

I stand in shame among plunder.

posted by Mique @ 10:21 PM