Let me set the scene. The Loved One and I participated in a gallery exhibit at the Lakeside Legacy Arts Park the week before last. Entitled "Snap Out Of It..., Don't You Hate It When They Say That?" the show focused on clinical depression.
The show's barn boss was a visual artist named Sophia, a dear old pal of mine. She's fought a lifelong battle to get people to take clinical depression seriously. She suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, a symptom of which is depression. Too many people have implied that she's merely being lazy. Some have come right out and said so. With the show, she created a constructive public outlet for her frustration.
I did a reading of a piece entitled, "I'm Slipping." It recounted a bit of my own lifelong battle against depression. Here's how it started:
I'm slipping.
Again. Same old thing. My life becomes very simple when I'm in the big slip. Sleep. Eat as many carbohydrates as the world's farms can produce. Tell myself what a lousy, lazy bum I am. Go back to sleep. Wake up. Eat more carbs. Insult myself. Do it all over again.
A lot of people love the simple life.
What's to love?
Later, I write:
I'm alone.
There must be some outward sign that warns people I'm toxic. Stay away! Don't touch, don't inhale, don't catch it!
When I'm slipping, people find ways to sidle away from me. And I think, "Those jerks. Couldn't get enough of me six months ago, now they wouldn't pour their drinks on me it I was on fire. What's wrong with them?"
But something's wrong with me. I radiate something. I've heard that if you walk near a big radio station's transmitter, you can hear the broadcast in your head, as if the metal in your fillings has received the signal and now is treating you to the Jonas Brothers in the caverns of your cranium. Maybe that's how powerful this depression is - 50,000 watts-worth of misery pouring out of me like the WGN signal.
I even delve into my wrangling with the ultimate solution:
Gotta find a way out of this mess.
Suicide. I've thought about it every day for most of my life. Sometimes, every hour....
... People become angry when they hear about a suicide. They say the person who did the dying was - take your pick - selfish, sinful, weak, or even all three. As if the cutting, the hanging, the ingestion of poison, the inhalation of toxic gas, or the submersion in frigid waters was the moral equivalent of having an office fling or eating the last of the ice cream.
In true Hollywood fashion, I end on the upbeat:
In a never-ending attempt to right my listing ship of sanity, I've tried talk therapy, group therapy, cognitive therapy, behavioral therapy, Freudian analysis, four different antidepressants, Valium, Xanax, Buddhist chanting, prayer, St. John's Wort, exercise, gin, vodka and beer, promiscuity, abstinence, pot, and at least a half dozen other panaceas I've forgotten or am too embarrassed to mention.
Trial and error. If at first you don't succeed, yadda yadda yadda. I hit on Zoloft when I was 46. Seven years ago. Hmm. I think this might work. I don't feel too much like killing myself anymore. Zoloft. And hope. They're all I've got.
I promise you - I swear to you - I'm gonna snap out of this. Because that's how easy it is. I made the decision and set out to complete this task and I'm almost finished. And it's only taken..., let's see now..., 36 years. It's a snap!
The fun thing about doing a staged reading is that, for a few minutes at least, I'm a rock star. A sculptor ran up to me after I was finished and lavished more praise on me than I could possibly merit. As she gushed, Fatima approached.
Fatima was born in a country that's notorious for its history of violence and unrest. She's made it clear many times that this whole business of depression is the bunk. According to Fatima, depression is easily conquered through prayer and a stiff upper lip.
Antidepressants? Hah! Shrinks and support groups? A couple of rackets.
Her's is precisely the attitude "Snap Out Of It..." was intended to address.
Exuding tension, Fatima waited for an opening. When the sculptor said that today's economic woes may set off an epidemic of depression, Fatima couldn't hold herself back. "You know, people have no idea what problems really are," she began.
Her eyes flashed wide. Her jaw jutted. "I've seen people shot on street corners. I've had to take cover for my life. Americans don't have any problems yet they're always talking about how horrible things are. It's sickening! Maybe people should experience real horror."
I sensed immediately that she was really referring to my tale of woe. Yet, wishing to avoid a scene, I found myself nodding. "Oh yeah, I know what you mean," I replied in my oiliest salesman voice. "We're richer and healthier than 98 percent of all the people in the world...." And so on.
What I should have done is tell Fatima to go fuck herself. It would have made me feel a lot better. When you're clinically depressed, you should always try to make yourself feel a lot better.
