The guy
explained—they were childhood friends, since Solomon’s father had been head of
a pharmaceutical here on the island. And so they had remained friends, though
Solomon had attended Yale and later Jesus College, Cambridge. Solomon’s story
had similarities to my own: we’re both gay, we’re both depressives, he had
written a book about the planned death of his mother, and I had written a book
about my mother’s life and, especially, death.
More, his
book on depression was titled The Noonday Demon: an
Atlas of Depression, which was a phrase I had encountered when reading
up on acedia. So I had
contemplated reading the book, but decided no; it was too recent, you see, my
own last bitter bout with the disease.
But I’ve
returned, over time, to consider the disease, or the condition, or perhaps just
the mindset of depression. And the fact that I can write that depression may be
a quality or state of mind indicates how tricky, how elusive, depression can
be.
Because
Solomon is right—in some ways the world of depression seems like the real
world. Really, is there any sense cleaning your house? It’s just going to get
dirty again, as will your body, so showering is out, and eating? You’d have to
open that refrigerator and get a nose-full of all that rotting food you’ve not
had the energy to throw out, and besides, getting out of the chair? Too much
work….
Following
this logic leads to tumbling down the very slippery slope that ends up—as it
did to Solomon—with his lying in bed, unable to get up, and unable to extend
his arm for four hours.
As Solomon
remarks in the clip below, depressives in some ways see the world more clearly.
Most people, for example, overestimate their abilities, and certainly most
people underestimate the amount of time and trouble that things will take. And
that was one of the problems you had—or at least I had—in the university. Of
course I can research and write a fifty-page term paper the day before it’s
due! Hey, no problem!
And so the
cheery optimism that most people arm themselves with is highly adaptive, but
not necessarily real or true. It may be true, as Thoreau said, that
the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, but a great many of those
men—and women—get through their days by telling themselves that everything is
fine, and will get better.
Will it?
Not for a depressive, or at least not for a depressive who cannot do the
simple, rational thing: pick up the phone and call a therapist. Because paradoxically,
the farther you have sunk into the pit of depression, the less likely you will
somehow manage to crawl out of it.
And Solomon
asks the question: is there anything to be found in that pit? Any diamonds, or
even lumps of coal? Isn’t depression linked to creativity?
I don’t
think so. Yes, the depression I endured may have lead to more compassion, more
understanding of suffering in others. Yes, for philosophic reasons, I have to
embrace my depression, since it’s part of me, it’s part of what shaped me.
But when I
was severely depressed, creativity was impossible. And even if it had been
there, would I have had the patience, the endurance to learn a Bach suite or
write a book? Those are more than acts of faith, they’re inherently improbable
shots in the dark. And the likelihood that anyone will hear the suite or buy
the book? Not high….
Really, the
worst part of the depression I suffered was the loss of so much joy in the
world. But it was more than that. For decades, I was starting ten feet behind
everyone else in whatever race we were running. And the effect of losing so
many races meant that I was pulled farther and farther behind everyone else.
The feet became yards, the yards miles.
Most
people…well, let me copy and paste from Wikipedia’s article on
the epidemiology of depression:
People
are most likely to suffer their first depressive episode between the ages of 30
and 40, and there is a second, smaller peak of incidence between ages 50 and
60.[8] The risk of major
depression is increased with neurological conditions such as stroke, Parkinson's
disease, or multiple
sclerosis and during the first year after childbirth.
My
depression started when I was in my teens, and may have stemmed in part from
knowing that I was different, fearing that I was gay, and enduring the
isolation that bearing that secret entailed. But more than that, the depression
occurred when I was forming—quite literally—my adult self. As such, it became
part of the warp and weft of my personality; in those periods when the black
dog—Churchill’s
metaphor for depression—had trotted off somewhere, I was still depressed. However
good I might feel, I knew the dog would be howling and butting his head against
the door and sighing, and I would have to rise and let him in again.
I grew up
and became a fatalist—the marriage would end, the audition would be botched,
sickness and death were right around the corner. And I had no baseline of
happiness by which to gauge my depression. It was the only land I knew; reports
of other territories I deemed anecdotal.
Had the
depression been treated in my teens, what would my life have been? I might have
been happier, would I have been the same? Would I have sacrificed some
sensitivity, some knowledge of suffering?
If I
believe that, aren’t I saying that people who have not suffered depression are
less sensitive than we who have, or who do? I’m not sure I’d go there.
Nor am I
sure I’d trade the decades of silent suffering for decades of euthymia, the
technical name for feeling good. I think I feel as Dr. Proudie did, when
his wife died: the good Lord had sent the affliction (to paraphrase Trollope), the Lord
had banished the affliction; blessed be the name of the Lord!
