Extinguished voice,
Its failing light
Wounds,
Crashing through white noise.
A shadow –
From its body ripped –
Guides simmered hopes,
All blind with fright.
By wordless depths unbound
In death,
A dissonant lament
Burns solace through my grief.
As tears turn to ash,
I write into my skin
The fire
Of a long-lost dream.
Freud had placed envy at the centre of malign feelings, for envy destroys all that is good, including goodness itself. We are never quick to admit to being envious of others, because that would entail also admitting that we are, in some way or another, their inferiors, be that in talent, intellect, ability, skill, kindness and so on. Yet there is another feeling which is as painful and can be as destructive: that of inadequacy.
There is a tendency and desire in people both to conform and to stand out. A feeling of inadequacy implies a failure in both.
I considered leaving it at that. After all, the experience of inadequacy must be near universal. We have all believed ourselves to have come short of expectations – whether our own or others’ – at some point in our lives. Nonetheless, there is a particularity attached to each individual’s experience: sameness in difference and vice versa.
Going to the root of the problem appears a near impossible feat. I journeyed through a plethora of theories, each concluding in the terrifying image: an internal battlefield where the discrepancy between reality and an idealised version of the self are set to clash. It is a vicious cycle, whereby anger is directed inwards and creates a self-perpetuating conflict that – when left unaddressed – will result in the onset and persistence of depression.
The problem goes deep. Reaching an objective viewpoint seldom helps. Whereas with most other malign feelings, understanding and acceptance make it possible to overcome their hold, that is not the case with inadequacy. This feelings is unsupported by reason. Even when we know that there is no basis in reality for how we feel, that does not automatically allow for its power to be broken. Since reason fails us, the solution will necessitate a creative approach.
Having been reminded of Nelson Mandela’s reversal of the coin, I would like to conclude on a more optimistic note: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” If we are inadequate, the great pretenders of this world, what we are reflects the chasms and vicissitudes on an imperfect world. And since we are able to dream up perfect versions of ourselves and of the world we inhabit, then ours too is the power to let go of these imagined Utopias.
I tried to find some source of happiness in the beauty that surrounded me. As long as the sun was high on the horizon and a thousand nothings were to be seen and done I could carry on as if nothing of importance had truly happened in my life. The routine appealed. It gave my chaotic universe some semblance of order and I could at least pretend to feel at peace.
In the darkness of the long winter nights I struggled to keep my demons at bay. I tossed and turned for hours on end pursued by ghostly visions and when a deeper sleep took hold of me at last I would be roused suddenly by a recurring scream, bewildered and afraid, my eyes searching fruitlessly the pitch-black corners of the room for its source. It would take minutes, long centuries of them, for me to realise that the shriek had been my own; that it had been outwardly silent, an asphyxiated expansion of a cavity denied a voice. Yet the haunting cry reverberated for hours longer through the darkest recesses of my mind, taunting me, scratching away at the little oasis of everydayness that had kept me sane thus far.
With each sundown malign dreams gnawed away more intensely at my respite. I grew terrified of shutting my eyelids lest the storms of my unconscious took hold once again. Frenzied spells would give way to bouts of melancholia and with the lack of sleep; my waking thoughts had grown darker too.
I feel a vast emptiness all around me. No history, no memories, no content whatsoever. The world and all its tribulations belong to others, not me. Anguished. In pain. It is this pointlessness of misery that sweetens the taste of poison and makes one’s neck crave the cuddle of a rope. A set of fingers, following instinctively the course of those thoughts, trailed the rounded curve of the neckline and contracted gently for one moment only, reassured by the pulse of the blood surging through.
Had I fallen asleep? Was I awake? At times I struggled to make out the difference.
I have been writing less of late. Physically restraining myself from opening up my blog and adding a new piece of myself to it. If there is no post then there is no dated, time stamped evidence of it. Nothing to be thrown back into my face as proof that I am shirking my duties elsewhere.
It is an obsession, I am told. An addiction.
My life is a succession of vicious circles. There are good days and bad. Those are easy enough to bare. What I struggle with is that empty space where apathy creeps in. It has ceased being a question long ago. Now it visits me only as a statement: “There is no point.”It is beyond comprehension to me why anyone would want to make me feel guilty for it.
Is there a distinction between writing and blogging? Perhaps… I see blogging as an extension of my development as a writer. It keeps my writing muscles flexed. It keeps me working, creating, even when I am not inspired, so that when the muse does visit she can find me ready, pen in hand.
I am back. Guilt-ridden. Fractured. Emptied out. Yet here. For another day at least.
Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Head in the unlit stove.
It was no accident.
You meant for it to happen. Why did you?
Refracted silence.
The ring of the telephone in the night,
That gruelling sound reverberating in my stomach
Every time I think of you.
This dread you gifted me.
An idiom in avalanche, reaching for the climax.
A perverse twist of fate that conjoined my lot
To the choreography of sphinxes pulling at your mind.
A compulsive gambler
No more.
I am done with the ephemerid assurance of a mask-strapped face,
Fumbling blindly for the tassels of your cloak until my fingertips wrinkle.
Drowned at the bottom of a glassful of crushed aspirin,
A groundless probabilistic miscalculation,
The scars of desire.
*
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/11/30/prompt-humble-pie/
I wanted to share this link with you, and my comments to the author’s confession. It is such a tough journey to make from depression to health. I hope this helps.
*
I recognised so much of myself in what you wrote. I write fiction. This grounds my search for identity. It was only once I admitted to being depressed – not the colloquial, everyday ‘depressed’ that people use instead of saying ‘sad’, but the big-D depressed, when your world implodes and there is nothing you can do about it – it was only then that I was able to identify a recurring theme in my writing. All my characters undergo identity crises. These differ in type, intensity and texture, but ultimately the motif is always there.
“How could I express this bizarre lack of identity or the way I swap and change personality to please the company I keep?” you say.
I believe we all do that in our teens, when we haven’t quite figured out who we are. Mimetic behaviour is also normal in adulthood, it is akin to empathy, but of course, what you refer to goes far deeper than that. It comes I believe from a deep-seated need for acceptance. From a belief that we are not enough. Truth is, you are enough. We always demand more of ourselves than others ever do. Depression intensifies the pain, and makes it difficult for us to have a positive self-image.
“Would he understand the secret emotional immaturity, like a child pretending to be an adult?” you continue.
Pretence… We all do it. Most of us most of the time, or perhaps some of us some of the time, fake it. Sometime we make it, other times we don’t. There is nothing wrong with keeping the child within alive, but I would like to hear more from you about this. I am not sure I fully grasped what you meant by it.
“How do I admit an inability to sustain friendships or relationships? Is it significant that I told my partner to leave because I was terrified of his abandonment?”
Attack as a form of defence. Building walls. Keeping all at a distance. Depression does that. Admitting that it is not you, but the depression in you that makes all this happen, can help lift the burden of guilt. A small step perhaps, but a step in the right direction nonetheless.
“Do I even recognise that the chronic emptiness is anything other than “normal”?”
This hollowing out is the worst thing that depression does. We project all that is good outwards, and are left completely empty. I don’t have the answer to how the process can be reversed. Acceptance. Perseverance. Openness. Every attempt can make a difference. In time…
You story-telling technique is wonderful. The twist unexpected. Thank you.
Introductory Lectures: Beyond the Couch @ The Institute of Psychoanalysis
THE INTRODUCTORY LECTURES
AND SEMINARS
Ever fancied yourself a bit of a Freudian? Or perhaps you’ve always wanted to be in the know when it comes to the tribulations of the mind, but didn’t know where to start. Here is the chance for you to find out what’s what when it comes to cigar-smoking theories.
I loved these lectures when I attended them a few years back, and would warmly recommend them to anyone with an interest in, or plain and simple curiosity about psychoanalysis. Can’t promise you’ll be an expert at the end of it, but it’s a neat party trick if your relatives have the head for it. Only joking! DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.
Click on the link above to find out more.
And farewell!
VB
This two-part series of lectures on psychoanalysis, each followed by a discussion in small groups, provides an overall view of the core concepts in psychoanalysis and their main applications. Participants are provided with basic texts for each lecture. Further reading is suggested and is available in the Institute’s library.
The course is suitable for people new in the field, as well as those with experience.
Depression: Silence of Being Ignored Feels Like Loss.
“I’m sharing this post in the hope that it will help others going through a similar experience, as well as those who are close to them and wished they could find a way to help. Depression can be as just as tough on friends and loved ones.”
My reply
Dear Julie,
Your post moved me. I am glad that you have overcome your depression and that you are better now. Your message is an important one. It is so tough to share how we feel when we are depressed, that it is vital for us to have the courage to explain to loved ones what depression does to us, what it makes of us, how it skews our perception of the world and those around us. That way, they’ll be able to read the signs, be there to help when we need them.
When I started getting suicidal thoughts, what kept me going was the belief that my family and friends cared about me, that they would not want for anything bad to happen to me, and that ultimately they would miss me if I were gone.
I am lucky in that respect, that even in the deepest thralls of despair, I still had their love to hang on to. It did happen sometimes that when I would try to reach out I would be ignored or dismissed, but I never thought it to be out of malice, or out of a lack of care. I always assumed that I had not been forthright enough, open enough about what I was going through.
It is tough for someone who has never experienced depression to understand it. It is not that they do not want to, but they simply lack the necessary tools to do it. Many people find it tough to deal with it. They feel helpless and sometimes it is easier to run away.
I am sure that you have more people in your life who care about you than you think or feel when you are depressed. They might just not be very good at showing it. When they ignore you, it might be nothing more than their being wrapped up in their own problems and unable to find the head-space to respond.
Continue to reach out. It is better than keeping silent. When you are happy, make the most of it. Your friends will miss the sunshine in you when it’s gone and will want to light it up again, feeling certain that dawn is not far.
Warm regards,
Vic
This has been a toughie. Sorry to have kept you waiting, my darlings, but I hope you think it worth the while. The main reason I came up with the COMING SOON post was to prevent myself from chickening out of the post you are reading now.
…
I was a happy, healthy, confident young woman. And then I wasn’t.
This is what depression does.
It crushes all that is good in you. It blinds you to the best you have to offer. It hollows you out.
I lead a charmed life. This is how I see it when I am healthy. This is what I cannot see when I am depressed.
I am lucky to have a wonderful husband, great friends, and a caring family. They would’ve helped me through this, if I had let them.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was the maiden in distress, in my impenetrable tower. There was no Dragon guarding the entrance. But the other D was.
They deserve the truth. You deserve the truth. At last I am ready to be candid.
I know now that I am not alone.
I hope that my speaking out about this will help others who continue to suffer in silence.
It took me a long time until I realised that enough was enough!
Time to break the silence on depression.
This letter is as much an apology for pushing you away, as it is a public acknowledgement of my struggles.
Dearest friend,
I do not want to start with an apology. Apologies sound hollow when written. You deserve so much more than any of these feeble surrogates for feeling could express.
I do not want to give any excuse for my absence, and for failing to get in touch with you. What I want to do instead is explain. And trust that you will understand.
I have been depressed. Still am. Clawing my way out of the bottomless pit.
I cannot pinpoint the moment when it came back. It is difficult to say, because when it comes it does not announce itself. There are early symptoms, yes, but there have to be eyes and a willingness to see them too.
My near-obsessive focus on getting the thesis submitted on time blindsided me to those warning signs.
I did not see them, because I did not want to see them. I could not, would not accept that this was happening again, so soon (at least it felt that way) after I’d managed to recover last.
I marshalled forward regardless.
One morning, some six months ago, I got in front of the computer. Routine. Turned it on. Opened the file. And then it happened.
The panic attack.
I had to crawl downstairs and get out into the garden for air. I could not breathe inside. Every time I returned, it struck again. After a while the attack subsided. I thought it best to take the rest of the day off. I put it down to exhaustion. One day. And I will be fine again.
I wasn’t.
For over three months, it happened again every morning. And then it got worse. It stayed. Chest constricted, gasping for air, hour after hour. I lived in panic, became paranoid. Afraid.
I do not know what I was afraid of.
Being watched. Being seen. Being found out.
When you are in the clasp of depression, the fear is somehow organic. Now that I am slowly coming out at the other end, I struggle to understand the logic, if there was any, behind this fear.
I isolated myself from the world. Worse than that. I was still in denial. No one close to me knew first-hand what I was going through. None of my friends. No one in my family. Not even my husband.
I concealed it from him until ten days ago, when I finally broke down and told him all, that I could see no end, no solution in sight.
The past two years, call them five, were an incredible strain on our relationship. We’ve pulled through somehow. It is beyond me how this did not manage to wreck my marriage, because it certainly gave it a good try.
Two years ago my grandmother died. It made me realise that I had become estranged from my father, if not by choice then by omission. It broke me.
I was afraid it would be the final straw, that he would not be able to take any more of it and I would be left alone, with my world crumbling around me. I am grateful that this did not happen. Yet the feeling of panic and fear were constant. My relationship was the only thing I had left that kept me going. I was afraid that if I told him, I would lose that too.
In the past, I’d never considered, really considered suicide other than in theoretical terms.
I always supposed that thinking about death, the pointlessness of life and pain, the lack of meaning in this world, were all prerogatives of a philosopher’s daily burden. I was a philosopher in training, so it was only to be expected that the subject would concern me.
When I finally hit rock bottom, the line between theory and action became blurred. Too blurred for comfort.
I was afraid that in one of the worst slumps, I would no longer take the daily demons, and do something stupid. Put an end to it.
For months I was an automaton, going through the motions, barely alive. I ate. I slept. I could not function at any other level as a human being.
It was worse this time than the last. Two years ago I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, cried myself into the morning night after night. Had to skip several nights of sleep for my body to become so exhausted that I would finally collapse and rest. Not this time around. It was worse, because all feeling, all emotion was numbed.
I was in denial about being depressed.
Not eating, not sleeping, and crying: these were all symptoms I could recognise. So my mind created a blocker, numbing all emotions. I subsisted in this false state, where on the one hand I was incapable of doing anything that might categorise me as a functioning individual, and on the other continued to deny this being the case.
Every morning, I climbed the stairs to the top room after breakfast, put my computer screen on and then stared blankly at it for hours on end. The panic attacks came. I numbed that too. When I felt them coming, I went through the motions until they subsided enough. I accepted them as part of my daily life, just like eating or sleeping. It was something that happened. That was all.
Churchill called his depression his little Black Dog.
I had a whole pack biting at my ankles. When one was done, another took its place. I can’t even be sure that they are gone. I still feel them lurking in the corners, around the recesses of my mind. They are always there. All I hope, is to keep them tame enough. Live to see another day.
I know now that I ought to have sought help. But I didn’t. Depression does that. It made me, in a skewed deranged way, impervious to the outer world. I became a spectre.
In truth, I wanted to remain so. To disappear, be forgotten, for the world to no longer exist. And since the world carries on regardless, for me to no longer exist instead.
Several weeks ago I started writing again.
I used it as a purge, or the equivalent of a leech that would presumably suck out the bad blood that coursed through my veins.
Day after day I wrote. I clasped onto it. It anchored me into life. After a while I breathed. I started clawing my way out of the abyss, see the light again.
It is time for me to break the silence on depression. I refuse to be ashamed or afraid.
I am grateful to you for all the support over the years. I hope that I succeeded with this letter, if not to fully explain, at least to make a positive first attempt at explaining myself.
With the deepest affection
Vic
I loved this post. I’ve long believed that reason is nothing more than another social construct. It attempts to find the lowest common denominator for the greatest number of people and then declares it to be the norm. This is Reason.
What its supporters fail to acknowledge is that — and here I am linking into what notsinglebutnothappy said about writing honestly:
Most people, most of the time pretend.
At first they do it because they are told that this is what they must do. They learn to curve their behaviour accordingly. Then they do it because it is easier. They become socialised; it is the only way society can function after all.
But the truth is that none of us are ‘normal’ or have ‘reason’ – not when you get down to it. And I think this is one of the sources of depression – at least the way I try to make sense of it – realising that somehow you do not fit into the mould. You are not what and how you are expected to be.
I have been writing since the age of six, but it took me years to stand up and say “I am a writer.” In fact, the first time I said it was a few days ago when I first started my blog. Because, writing is not a ‘real’ job, I was told. It is a hobby, something that you do in your spare time. So I struggled to fit into the mould until it nearly broke me.
So… Rather than being a reason-rich conformist, I’d rather be a reason-less writer.
vic briggs 