Doing the Next Right Thing

Tonight I had the privilege of being there for a new friend whose life is falling apart.  Or so it seems.  This lovely young woman with the beautiful smile and laughing eyes is facing an unexpected and devastating divorce—one brought on by what appears to her to be unfathomable betrayal.   

She is devastated, terrified, and nearly without hope.  Yet she reached out to me and another new friend for support.  This is both a privilege and a humbling prospect.  She doesn’t even know our last names. 

The Buddha said that suffering is the first noble truth of human existence.  What is the measure of this suffering?   And what do I have that could encourage S. tonight?  Nothing, except shared human experience.   

So I wrote her a long letter as she prepares to return to her home in another state to face this situation.  I kept coming back to the idea of doing the next right thing.  Reducing the days and weeks small manageable pieces.   An idea I learned from my 12-step friends. 

In S’s case, it might be enough tomorrow to get on the airplane and fly home.  And to let that be enough for one day.  Or maybe she’ll need to break it down further.  Get up.  Brush teeth.  Get dressed.  Now, eat.  Now get in the car and drive.   Etc.  Try, knowing it will impossible to succeed completely, to put off worrying about other things until they truly need to be faced. 

I have been in places when I was as fearful as S. is today.  I wish I’d known then about this doing-the-next-thing idea.  Sometimes still, I’m in such a fog, and there seem so many urgent things to be done, that I overwhelm myself and do nothing.

In other words, the next indicated thing itself eludes me.

For times like this, I have a mental cheat sheet of things that are always a right thing to do.  I don’t always use it, but I have it.        

One is to go for a walk.  Or bike ride, or other exercise.  Preferably outside.  Another is to read something that feeds my spirit.  Another is to do stream-of-consciousness writing for three or more pages.  Or meditate:  just counting my breaths to ten and starting over.  Or go to a 12-step meeting. 

I don’t think I’ve ever done one of these things and later thought, Damn.  Was THAT a mistake.   I usually calm down, having made at least one good decision in a day.     

If I am hungry or tired, I need to eat or rest before doing anything else, unless it’s literally crucial to do something else first.  My ability to do anything successfully if I’m hungry or tired is compromised.    

I use this stuff every day.  It helps me navigate the multitude of moments that add up to a life.  And I need all the help I can get.  What more do we have but this very moment?  Yesterday really is gone, and tomorrow really isn’t here yet.  That I spend hours remembering the past or fearing the future doesn’t make them any more real.    

Tonight I hope S. and any other hurting person will find the courage to do the next right thing, and then rest, knowing that’s all there is for now.    

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top photo: Walfred Moisio, “Woman Walking on Sidewalk.” http://ffffound.com/home/bkaczmarek/found/?offset=125&  second photo:  A woman walking down steps in the old city of Jerusalem, November 18, 2007. Photo by Michal Fattal/Flash90.http://religionandterror.com/haunting-images/2007/12/16/flash-90/.  third photo:  dhammza, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dhammza/3429957344/

text copyright The Blue Kimono 2009.  Please do not use or copy without permission.

Lessons learned about “managing” depression.

Writing is an action that, when it does its job, expresses the unique vision or experience of the writer.  How gratifying that in sharing this closely held experience of “melancholia,” I’m once again reminded that it is not unique to me.       

The subject of depression resonates with people around the world.  I have received many comments in the last few days that humble me with the depth of people’s stories and their expressions of goodwill.  I invite you to read these if you ever feel alone in your own melancholia—or want to understand someone else’s.  

Many of us have questioned the words “depression” and “disorder” because melancholia of some degree is a universal human reality.  I do not think of myself as a Person With Depression.  After many years of wrestling with the definitions, finally I think of myself as a human being with individual needs.   At the same time, I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend clinical diagnosis, and medication, to anyone who wants it—and in particular to anyone thinking of taking irreversible action.  This kind of melancholia is not to be taken lightly. 

And so.  Today and tomorrow I hope to finish what I started, by offering you a list of lessons that support me.  Writing this is challenging and draining—but rewarding, because this is a way I can put some meaning into my history. If even one person can glean hope or practical usefulness from this, the writing will have been worth it.    

 

Lesson Number One.  Learn the truth about suffering.  In our western cultures, we somehow get the idea that if we aren’t gleefully happy, there’s something wrong.  We’re “disordered.”  Words like “depression” and “disorder” require a standard against which to measure moods.  What might that “normal” standard be, and who gets to decide?     

Philosophical and spiritual teachers throughout history—as well as literature, the arts, and probably even science—tell us that suffering, not glee, is fundamental to the human condition. 

At my daughter’s public school, “grade inflation” means that kids expect an “A”, or top mark, for average performance.  They don’t realize that for most people, “C”, or average, is the norm.   I feel a kind of similar “mood expectation inflation” has permeated our culture.  As one of my readers said, “…we always feel the pressure to smile, showing all our teeth and screaming and shouting, proving we're all having ‘fun’ all the time.” 

For me, the message that I “should” be happy itself generates despair by encouraging self-judgment even in the face of garden-variety sadness.  I have fought my depression way too much—and what has fighting ever gotten anyone? 

Along with several readers and other bloggers, I walue the writings of the Buddhist nun Pema Chodron.  Pema has this to say about suffering:

The first noble truth of the Buddha is that when we feel suffering, it doesn’t mean that something is wrong.  What a relief.  Finally somebody told the truth.  Suffering is part of life, and we don’t have to feel it’s happening because we personally made the wrong move.”

[Pema Chodron,When Things Fall Apart, p. 40]

The Christian scriptures are full of references of suffering, which, if written today, might be classified as “depression.” 

Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil…” (Ps. 23). 

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4). 

As long as I run from suffering, I run from the truth—and that’s as good a definition of mental illness as any I know.  For me, running from suffering causes much more suffering.  That includes running from depression.  It feeds compulsion and addiction.  Holding out for an impossible sense of joy and happiness is a setup for disappointment of the highest magnitude. 

Does this mean I don’t run any more?  Not at all.  I still run away every day.  But slowly, gradually, I learn that I have choices. 

When I turn around and look at the black dog of my suffering, the dog quiets down.  Sometimes he lies down with me.  Sometimes I cry tears of genuine sadness on his flank.  In the process, I gradually heal.  This, for me, is not a disorder.  This is real life. 

Lesson Number Two.  Make a commitment to living.   I have had two episodes of what the doctors call “major depression.” The first happened in the wake of the birth of my daughter, and the second two years later.  During these times I was unable to do much more than sleep, eat, and feel.  I was beset with anxiety and sleeplessness and had to let others care for me and take over my responsibilities.  Thanks to family members, I never went to a hospital. 

Both episodes had advance warning.  They followed major life stressors.  Each of them lasted a few weeks, and had a rather long healing period during which I suffered from a lot of self-judgment.    

Leading up to these episodes, I came face to face with why people take their own lives.  Probably, guilt over hurting my mother, and fear of leaving my child motherless, kept me from that brink. 

Instead, I lived on a fence right near the brink—ever aware of the brink; ever believing it offered an “option.”  It was the ultimate “shit or get off the pot” situation.  Unable to live life, yet unable to leave it—this was the place of deepest suffering for me.  It was my “valley of the shadow of death.” 

It was at a time like this, over nine years ago, that I received a life-changing message.  A trusted counselor who was helping me through my second episode told me some appalling news.  He said:   

“You have to make a real commitment to living.” 

At first I couldn’t believe it.  Up until this time he’d been guiding me in day-to-day actions I needed to take.  This was the first word  about the long-term requirements for my recovery.  I thought something along the lines of “What?  You mean it’s all up to me?”   

That is what he meant.  But now I understand that what he really meant was that no human being, no medication, no prayer could give me a life if I wasn’t on board.  It’s only by a choice of mine that I could back away from that abyss, or from the purgatory of choicelessness.  Although it seemed cruel, I now know I desperately needed to hear those words.   

It bothered me for days.  I am a person who, left to my own devices, shuns commitment.  Still, I comprehended that he wouldn’t say this if he didn’t believe I could do it.  I asked him if he believed I could do it.  He said yes.  I asked my husband.  He said yes.  I asked myself.  I said no.  But I owed it to my daughter and others who love me to try it.  I had nothing whatsoever to lose.      

That was nine years ago, and I haven’t had another episode.  I may, of course, have one.  Today I’ve learned how to see when I’m starting to get too tired or worn out and leading into such a place, and to take measures to correct it.  I’m learning many things, every day.  Tomorrow—if I’m up to it—I’ll post one more time about some of those lessons. 

All text is copyrighted by the Blue Kimono, 2009.

Melancholia. Or, the Causes of Depression

This is a post I didn’t want to write, but that wanted to be written.  There will likely be more of them, too.  Why?  Because I believe this topic is under the surface of many lives, many conversations.  Especially for women.  Because life is too short to keep secrets, especially from ourselves. 

In the last twenty years, I’ve been a student of the causes and cures for depression—what the old books used to call “melancholia.” 

The first thing I learned is that I Have It.  I learned that, in the Physician’s Desk Reference (PDR), my kinds are called dysthymic disorder and major depression.  I also had postpartum depression. 

The second thing I learned is that no one really knows what depression is.  No one—and I mean no one told me this—I just concluded it.  In fact, every person I’ve consulted for help with my depression has had an answer for what it is.  Mostly they don’t[ agree, though.  For instance, I’ve been told, or read, that depression is:   

a choice

an imbalance of serotonin in the brain

a failure to pray enough

a hormonal imbalance—not enough progesterone

an addiction

anger turned inward

the result of faulty cognitive behavior patterns

a reaction to medications

based in nutritional issues

a part of the grief process

the name for what’s “wrong” with you when you’ve been sad for more than 2 weeks.

a failure to carry out the mission of the U.S. Air Force

a mental malady

an emotional malady

a spiritual malady

a physiological malady

Given this list, it seems rather arrogant for the people who write the PDR—that huge compendium of things wrong with people—to presume what depression is.  The fact that my thing is called a “disorder” in itself places a judgment on huge segments of the population by labeling their internal processes as disorderly; that is, not normal. 

Secondly, the fact that so many people in the helping professions have different answers for what causes depression—and how to treat it—can itself be a mighty depressing prospect.  That these well-meaning people don’t talk to each other doesn’t help, either. 

What does all this mean?  Hell if I know.   

But I did learn other things, too.  I learned that plenty of smart, accomplished people have had “It.”  It’s almost common now, but back when I was twenty-eight and first diagnosed, I didn’t know that.  Abraham Lincoln is my favorite in this category.   There are so many others I’m not even going to pick some—but I will note that a disproportionate number of famous depressoids seem to have been writers, artists, and musicians.  Many of my favorites, of course, are on the list—like Hermann Hesse and Dylan Thomas. 

Gradually I made my own list about what causes depression, and even more gradually I’m learning to trust it.  On top of that list is self-judgment, and a giving up on oneself—neither of which have been helped along by the medical establishment labeling me or throwing treatments my way.  Oh, the stories I could tell.  Someday, maybe. 

 

Here are some other ways I understand my depression.   It’s:   

a reaction to stress—either “good” or “bad”

a response to too much stimulation

a crucible for art and growth

a haven for a heart or mind or body that is simply overwhelmed.

a blessing:  thank God my body knows when it needs to go inward. 

a curse.  In a major episode, nothing could be worse. 

There are reasons for this post emerging to the surface needing to be written today, as opposed to last month, or next week.  But because I’m tired and need to get to bed, I’m going to stop here.  I’ll close with saying I was motivated to write this to reach out to others who have been diagnosed with depression and might recognize some of what I’ve written.  

 

Whenever I Feel Like Being a Writer, I Lie Down Until the Feeling Goes Away

Imogen Cunningham, The Unmade Bed, 1957

My hat is off to my friends in blogland who are working on novels.  I hope I never discourage you.  I hope you write the novels that I will never write. 

When I was a teenager, I didn’t think about being a writer.  I wrote.  Journals, poems, cynical nonsense, and sad stories—“typical” teenage emotions that still tug my heart.  I loved the feeling of ink on paper.  I could be making a grocery list or writing a term paper.  I enjoyed writing anything. 

Later, after college, I thought about being a writer.  I could see it—the coffee shops and the black turtlenecks.  The life of the mind.  I could romanticize that life.  I wasn’t sure how people like that paid the rent, though.  And I kept thinking of Ernest Hemingway, and tortured artists of all stripes.  I freaked out.  I could also see that reality being true for me.  So I put the “pure” vision aside and chose a different path.     

Edward Weston, Clouds, 1938

My professional life emerged to take advantage of writing anyway, and I always found satisfaction in that.  Later, I learned from The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron that it isn’t necessary to be addicted or suicidal to Produce Art (though I still think that gives some people an edge).  This began to change my perspective.  

Other things happened.  I took a correspondence course in short non-fiction writing.  I participated in a fiction and poetry writer’s group in Alaska.  I went to workshop in Bloomington, Indiana, at which the instructor said my experiences as a military wife were “my material.” 

I rented a writing studio and wrote 1000 words a day for months.  As you can see by the length of some of my posts, including this one, getting words out isn’t difficult.  But making them into something recognizable in the literary world is very difficult. 

Good writers are a dime a dozen where I live.  I’m old enough now to believe that there’s nothing new under the sun; no original human story.    

Through therapy and a lot of 12-step meetings, I realized I could not write what sells.  I’m talking about fierce political criticism; weird sex; regret for the past; fears for the future; excruciating love stories.  I’ve had my share of drama.  Writing for therapy is one thing, but stepping back and using this stuff as paint on a canvas is, at the moment, not for me.  My attempts to do it caused more suffering than they cured.         

I realized I wanted to have written literary fiction more than I want to write it.  I wanted respect; and to be thought cool by black turtleneck-wearers.  But I also wanted to be happy.  Maybe earn a living.  I didn’t want to cut off my ear to send to a prostitute.  

Today, once again I love putting words together within the context of a real day.  Crafting a well-written grant proposal makes me happy a lot of the time.  Journaling makes me happy all the time.  Blogging sends me into fits of joy, because the finished product is achievable.  I love the visual creativity, too; and best of all—I get to connect with fabulous, fascinating people. 

I may still write a pain-filled novel someday.  The opportunity will always be there.  But for now, whenever I want to “be a writer” I wait a little.  If the words are there, they’ll find a way out.