A Blog of Depression

Today would have been my father’s 80^th birthday.

He’s been dead for 20 years.

My mother would have turned 80 in mid-November. She’s been officially gone 10 years, but the deterioration of her brain took her from awareness of life 10 years before that.

Yeah. Pretty much at the same time, 20 years ago, I lost my father and my mother. I have no model for how to be 80, or 70, or even 60 for that matter.

So here I am, and it’s shortly my turn to become 50. If I die or lose my mind at roughly the age my parents did, I have only a decade left. I have no reason to suspect that will happen, but then neither did my father or my mother. It could be that 50, for me, will be only the half way point. That I have a long, long road still to walk. Someday I will know, and whatever it is will be fine.

It is a strange thing to think about. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like to be 50, but I have to remind myself fairly often that I’m not 40. It seems to me that I’m 40. It seems as though I’ve lost a decade in there somewhere, and it’s unlikely I’ll get it back. There’s a Facebook joke going around: “Inside every old person is a young person wondering what the fuck happened.” Exactly.

What happened to my 40s?

Depression happened. Or now it appears it was not depression exactly but something else, bi-polar lite or just an inability to get stuff done or find the energy I had for life all my 4 decades before that. In spite of that, I worked my way to career stability. I like my job and would not trade it for any other one. I live in a beautiful place. I raised my daughters from 14, 10, and 4 up to 24, 20, and 14. And my children are incredibly wonderful young women. My marriage grew smoothly and happily towards its 25^th anniversary. Other than the constant nag and drag of emotional struggle, I am healthy. There is no reason for me to be sad.

So let’s pretend there’s only 10 years left to go. What would that mean?

On the one hand, just for my own personal self, it would be fine. Sad though it may be for a healthy nearly-50 year old, I am often worn out. There’s no big life goals waiting for me to accomplish them and be proud. At least today it feels that way. I cannot think of any.

On the other hand, I enjoy my job and am not near retirement; I love my family, and I want to be with grandchildren that might arrive. I don't want anyone to have to grieve for me. Also, there are times I do not feel dreadful. Moments that I enjoy life for its own sake.

When you’re depressed like this, you have to remind yourself that it won’t always be this way. You have to remember that it comes and goes. But then again, after all, it will always return to this phase. It’s pushing that famous rock up the hill, then having it roll right over you on its way back down. There are days you just don’t want to push it up there again, and at that point it feels like quitting time. Just lie there bruised and watch it fall down the hill without you. Sleep as much as you possibly can. If at all possible, with the comforting weight of a cat resting against your body. Robert Frost had a warm pony with bells instead: "The woods are lovely, dark, and deep / but I have promises to keep / and miles to go before I sleep / and miles to go before I sleep." Yes. Exactly. Exactly so. This also says it perfectly: "I have been one acquainted with the night. / I have walked out in rain, and back in rain. / I have outwalked the furthest city light."

But the whole thing. Read the whole thing. Then I won’t have to try to explain any longer.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

If my mother and my father were alive, I wonder what counsel they would have for me. Both of them suffered far more than I have ever suffered. My father was haunted by severe bi-polar all his life. My mother struggled from the stress of single-handedly raising three children. Both of them cared, and people who care keep an eye out for you like the watchman on his beat, even when you can’t explain. Even when you slip away from them into an even darker place.

That’s what my parents would do, if they were still within talking distance – Dad would say, “I love you,” and Mom would say, “I love you.” And I would feel a little bit better.

(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love And Understanding?

September 21
International Day of Peace

I'm trying to write about "Peace, Love, and Understanding."

I could be cynical and score cleverness points by mocking the faded peace signs and wilted flowers of latter-day hippies. I could be patronizing toward peace groups that hold sparsely-attended rallies on street corners or fruitlessly wave signs in front of capitol buildings. I could satirize politicians who insist that war is the best way to get peace. I could stop cold in despair at the unrelenting loss of life in war zones. Or I could just dodge the subject by explaining that none of that world stuff matters so long as I am safe and prosperous and have no loved ones in the military.

I could simply give up on the subject, delete this blog post, and write instead about something beautiful or delightful like dark chocolate truffles or the autumnal equinox or Don Quixote. Personally, I find peace in chocolate, love in nature, and understanding in great novels. That works for me because I have such a good life to start with. But when I study the news, from local to international, "I ask myself, is all hope lost?" It's difficult to pursue inner peace when you're struggling with "pain and hatred, and misery." If you care enough about the world's problems to search for "light in the darkness of insanity," your spirit will feel "downhearted, sometimes." If not lots of times.

But it is the International Day of Peace. It's a good day to give credit to people who find nothing funny about working for world peace. And there are lots and lots and lots of them. All over the world."Where are the strong? and who are the trusted? And where is the harmony?" The measure of their success is not in absolutes. If we are waiting to see when "War is over!" and "Poverty is no more!" and "Justice has overcome injustice!" then no wonder we sit down and hide our faces. No wonder we escape to the woods with frosted brownies and a good book. No wonder we think it's a joke to even try for "world peace," and instead buy cynical bumper stickers advocating "whirled peas." But our success is measured in footsteps, while world history evolves by generations and takes shape over centuries. We simply have no way of knowing what our little dab on the canvas will look like someday. But without the peace workers--be they activists or artists or any of the rest of us--conditions would surely be even worse. That is my view.

Elvis Costello keeps on singing that song, keeps on asking those questions, year after year, to crowd after crowd, and though his hair thins and he no longer stands on the sides of his red shoes, the intensity in his eyes doesn't falter.

To anyone who confronts the hardest questions unflinching, working without knowing whether or not it makes any difference, may International Peace Day bring you a moment of hope.

What's so funny 'bout peace, love, and understanding? Nothing. Not one single thing.


By Nick Lowe. Originally recorded 1978 by Elvis Costello and the Attractions.
And as performed on the David Letterman Show, 2007.

Fantasies of Safety

If you decide to give up your worldly comforts and go to Afghanistan to provide health care for people who have none, is it your fault if you get shot? If you do not wear a seat belt and are ejected from a car during a crash, is it your fault if you are injured? If you fall down the stairs because you tripped over junk you left in the hallway, is it your fault your broke your arm? And most of all why do we care so much about fault? Many people think of a smoker as guilty of lung cancer while a non-smoker is a more innocent victim. Someone who exercises regularly and suffers a heart attack is more to be pitied than another who is overweight and inactive.

I suspect that if we can convince ourselves that accidents and illnesses can be blamed on someone, then we believe we can prevent bad things from happening to ourselves.

Somebody rationalized the death of aid workers in Afghanistan like this: since they went somewhere dangerous instead of abiding by the principle of "charity begins at home," their death is their own fault. Never mind that some of them had been in Afghanistan for years and years. But they were helping Muslims, when they could have been helping needy Americans. Blame assigned. Compassion withheld. The illusion of personal safety enhanced.

Last week, a huge gas explosion in San Bruno, California killed four people. Within hours of the disaster, news outlets across the country began asking the question "Could it happen here?" Suddenly we are informed of possible risks of gas explosion in our neighborhoods. Reports of gas leaks, most of them groundless, increase exponentially and absorb resources that might be better spent on more immediate local concerns.

A bridge collapse in Minneapolis in 2007 killed thirteen people, and by the next day we were reading stories about aging and dangerous bridges everywhere. Anxious drivers tried to choose their routes based on bridges. And although only a few bridges have been repaired as a result of the scrutiny following the tragedy in Minnesota, I suspect most people have forgotten to worry about bridges.

Of course it's important to investigate the causes of disasters and accidents and, if possible, prevent them from happening again. Of course those responsible should be held liable. Of course we should learn from mistakes and act accordingly. No one would argue with that.

What I want to argue about is fear and irrational thinking. Might it be hazardous to our well being to choose our safety preoccupations based on the rapid news cycles covering the most recent horrible events? Almost before we can feel concern for the losses suffered by others, we are wondering whether we ourselves are also at risk. And we are afraid. We are also distracted from any number of other hazards that almost certainly pose a much greater personal risk than the one we are panicking about right now.

We have a similar pattern with health dangers. An outbreak of a disease, especially if it is an unusual one, throws our attention immediately to that particular illness, and we are suddenly more anxious about that germ than about ailments that we have equal or greater probability of contracting. The length of our focus on a certain virus or poison or bacteria is controlled by how long media attention lasts. Whatever happened to anthrax? or SARS? When did you last open an envelope with trepidation, worried that white powder might fall out, or wear a breathing mask to the grocery store? (I take that back. You may have done so during the recent H1N1 season, and perhaps wisely so.) Are you more concerned with Asian Bird Flu or salmonella? killer bees or Lyme disease? flesh eating bacteria or brown spiders? tainted Tylenol capsules or mad cow? spinach from California or eggs from Iowa? I am not diminishing the importance of any of these problems, but in my view it makes no sense to let my fears be selected and inflamed by what the media thinks I should worry most about at any given time. Or really, to be frank about it, what the media thinks I will be most interested in worrying about. When the news value of any given problem wanes, a new fear will be fueled.

The issue is proportion. Reasonableness. And a healthy attitude toward safety. That is my view.

Here is the reality: we are not safe. And no amount of fussing will change that.

Heretical Musings

I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ. --Mohandas Gandhi

Today I can barely stand to think of myself as "Christian." I'm almost ready to quit.

Throughout history, "Christians" have, in the name of religion, pressured, forced, manipulated, coerced, bribed, threatened, tricked, or otherwise attempted to control people. Let's just be clear that we have no Gospel-based justification for such behavior. (And let's also be clear that throughout history and yes, even today, many "Christians" have scorned to use underhanded or aggressive strategies in the name of God.)

But many "Christians" who get media attention showered upon them are like [name deleted] who is famous for picketing all over the country in the name of the doctrine that "God hates [derogatory term deleted]." Or like [name of deceased deleted] who blamed the ravages of Hurricane Katrina on "HOmoSEXuals" or [name also deleted] who saw the earthquake in Haiti as a "blessing" and the result of a Haitian pact with the Devil.

Or, to bring this catalog of infamy current, like [name deleted] who is staging a "Burn a Koran Day" on September 11. [Same name deleted] will be responsible for God knows how many additional surges of fury and distrust on a global scale. Pictures of his event are sure to be used in recruiting by terrorist groups. I can't stand it. I'm ready to quit except, that would be like letting the bad guys win, right?

What does it mean that hatred grabs our attention and sells advertising while boring old caring-for-others is relegated to dependent clauses and submerged paragraphs? That the guy who hates has a full-color picture announcing his ugly message to the entire Associated Press world? That his answering machine is backed up with requests for interviews? That his mailbox is full of Qur'ans destined for the flames?

Indeed, here I am myself, devoting a blot, I mean a blog, to the haters instead of to the caring ones.

I was raised United Methodist, flirted with conservative Baptist theology as an undergraduate, then came to my senses and joined a Mennonite congregation that emphasized working for social justice and participating in a community of mutual care. (Of course I know many other groups espouse the same approach.) Anyone who reads the Gospels with an open mind must acknowledge that Jesus lived according to those values. He was persecuted because he spoke for outcasts and challenged religious authority. For the most part, he taught the people who came to hear him, or to challenge him, or who were milling about the Jewish temple. He sometimes started a conversation and invited people to join him, but he never chased them down or yelled at them or called them ugly names if they declined. No. He let people go their own way.*

He let people go their own way.

Tell me, am I so angry and ashamed by the behavior of some "Christians" that I'm in danger of becoming one who hates? I can't stand it that so many "Christians" believe they have the right, and not just the right but a holy mandate, to seize political power and use it to subjugate our country to a certain version of "Christianity." It enrages me. I can't stand to let them go their own way. I want to stop them, or at the very least, I want to distance myself from them as much as I possibly can.

The religious power brokers of Jesus's time may not have succeeded in killing him without the support of the people. And the support of the people was won in large part when Jesus failed to bring about the political revolution they expected. It has not changed. Most people, including "Christians," want power, including political power, and they want it now and are willing to use whatever means necessary to get it.

Including ignoring the example of Jesus himself.

*Disclaimer: Note the title of this post. Also note that while I feel strongly about the issues I discuss here, I do not present myself as a model "Christian" or, indeed, a model anything. These are simply my views.