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.