Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, angst, city, depression, health, life, loneliness, marriage, mental health, mid life crisis, rural, sadness, teenager
âThere is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.â
Maya Angelou
A city girl who lives in a village.
A muted erudite.
A smoker who canât smoke.
A drinker who canât drink.
A carnal creature sans sex.
Vivacity rendered torpid.
A bird in a cage of its own making.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: addiction, Alps, books, company, conversation, depression, drinking, films, France, Identity, isolation, language, loneliness, mental health, mountains, Perspective, Politics, sea, self, smoking
âMy idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation.â Jane Austen
I went to âBook Clubâ this evening. Was loath to go after last night out at two bars with all the drinking, smoking and haphazard talk. Have been âtwitchyâ and irritable all day as a result. My poor family. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd had one drink more than my ration. Which was already really hard, given that we were out for hours. Self-recrimination âcause Iâd been visibly irritated and uncomfortable with the drinking and smoking around me, and thatâs not nice for those out to have a good time. Self-recrimination because I should know better than to put myself in the line of temptation. And yet. I didnât want to get out of bed this morning. Iâve been near-to-tears all day. And, well, âBook Clubâ is normally a large group of women in what is essentially a âbook swap,â* drinking a lot of wine and chattering.
So I went late. And, I went only âcause it was a bonafide friend hosting it at her house and I wanted to support her. I brought a thermos of green tea and ginger to drink and in order to keep my hands busy and to keep me drinking SOMETHING while, ostensibly, everyone else drank copious amounts of wine. But it wasnât like it usually is. For one thing, it was just our host, a dear friend of hers, another American who, while I may not agree with her politics, is an avid reader and I trust her judgment on books, as well as our hostâs twelve-year-old daughter who is also a reader, and who makes short stop-action films. They were finishing dinner when I arrived, and the daughter had made a peach cobbler. They also werenât drinking alcohol, just Perrier, and later, tea, so I didnât feel tempted or preoccupied with others drinking. Best of all? The conversations were dynamic and interesting. We talked about films, and books weâd recently read, and television programs – both in French and English – and we talked about curricula – both French and American â and we talked about travel, and we talked about exercise ‘fads’ sweeping the globe. It was a good evening. Nothing was discussed in too much depth, as I would generally like to do, but, I am, arguably, too serious.  Ultimately, it was an entertaining evening.
What a happy surprise! Thereâs a moral here Iâm sure. Perhaps itâs that I need to only hang out with people who enjoy talking about subjects I also enjoy talking about? Even if that means I am not as social as I generally like to be. There are several people in the valley whose company I find engaging. Perhaps itâs that I canât be in bars? I suppose itâs like a junkie going to a shooting gallery. Certainly, I canât be in them for too long. In my previous homes â Portland, New York, Los Angeles, London – I would have discussed the subjects we discussed this eve, such as literature, film, culture, education (and, ideally, some politics!) every time I met up with friends. However, perhaps in those cities itâs more obvious to find more people and situations in which to do so. I mean, my coterie of friends in each of the aforementioned places were filmmakers, writers, painters, musicians, artists, and conversational skill is highly valued as a source of creativity and collaboration. Moreover, these types of people are generally more expressive. Whereas where I live now, people are outdoorsmen. Mountain people. They like to climb, hike, ski, and maintain their fitness in the outdoors, preferably at altitude. Thatâs their passion and their focus. Not âwrong,â just not me. While I appreciate the mountains, I am claustrophobic in them, preferring the sea always (âHomme libre, toujours tu chĂ©riras la merâ). As a result of both the environment and the communityâs subsequent interests in general, Iâm often self-conscious, frustrated, and isolated here.
More so now that Iâm trying to substantially reduce my drinking, smoking, and drug-taking after 33 years of âcaningâ it. Additionally, the social life Iâve primarily known here is centered on boozy lunches, afternoons, and dinners…at restaurants and barsâŠwith those that flock to and spend a lot of time in them. However, for whatever reason, tonight I made the happy discovery that while the people and opportunities like this evening might be few-and-far between, there ARE, indeed, situations like tonight. Iâve experienced them here before. Evenings in which I will not spend the entire time âclock watching,’ leaning on, or ‘cluckingâ for my âcrutches,â and can, instead, enjoy what I perceive to be good company. Is this a new direction? It could be. It should be. Is it evidence of a whole new me? Perhaps not. But, perhaps, it is a peek at what the future could be like here, for the remaining years I am here, and thatâs a relief from the bleak perspective Iâve been viscerally feeling for the last couple of weeks.
*We donât read the same book and then talk about it like a traditional âBook Clubâ does. Itâs for Anglophone women to have a supply of reading material without having to buy books, which is a great idea in theory.
Filed under: In Vino Veritas, In Aqua Sanitas | Tags: alcohol, anger, Christmas, depression, happy, humanity, loneliness, melancholy, mental health, sad, society
âThat’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.â Elizabeth Wurtzel
I love Christmas because it seems to bring out the humane in people. The individualism of the world is dismissed for a moment as people look outside of themselves to be kind and helpful to others. For most of us, itâs a time of loved ones and good food…ceremonies and lights. For many others, however, itâs a time of year when we feel we must pretend to be happy when weâre not. How does one begin to explain depression to a person who doesnât know it first hand? How does one explain it even to oneself? As I consider how to describe it, a barrage of words come to mind: fatigue, panic, sadness, anger, confusion, suspicion, hesitation, reticence, loneliness, regret, fear, isolation, hopelessness, self-hatred, and an interminable longing to simply have it stop. Itâs bleak.
Iâve suffered depression since I was an adolescent. Now, however, I somewhat understand the ways-and-means to avoid a rough bout of it â defined by me as the inability or wish to do anything but to be left alone to sleep, and when thatâs not possible, the desire to achieve an altered state through substances in order to dull my senses and make things tolerable. To avoid these terrible times, I know to do a few things when I can feel itâs becoming hazardous, usually indicated by my having excessively destructive âself speak.â I take a walk outside each day. I write each day. I watch comedies rather than dramas, and read novels that wonât delve into any existential battle or dystopian reality. I sleep more and drink more water. I also avoid certain types of people when possible. For me, I find it too challenging to spend time with people who exacerbate my sense of failure. People who seem happy and say positive things in an upbeat manner all the time. Privately, I find myself feeling that something is even more terrible about me that Iâm miserable whereas obviously itâs possible that such contented people exist. At the same time, I have disdain for these types of people, thinking theyâre simple-minded or, worse, theyâre false. This depresses me more.
Often, there is an internal struggle as I imagine a choice to either avoid depression or succumb to it. Part of me does not want to make it âbetterâ for myself, to do the things I know will help, but, rather, wants to delve into the monstrous abyss of it because I feel I deserve it and Iâm too exhausted to fight. Another part of me thinks itâs utterly foolish to imagine I can escape it anyway. Sometimes I pretend for others that Iâm not feeling as I do in the hope that it will go away if I simply ignore it. I know others prefer this. It never works. I went through a period of AA decades ago. One of the things that the group talked about is how those who suffer depression attempt to diminish their feelings through excessive drinking and/or the taking of drugs. Not only does this not lessen it, they asserted, the feelings of unhappiness become addictive (as do AA meetings!). I still consider this, but I donât agree entirely. Indeed, I agree that unhappiness is a richly complex feeling that becomes habitual. I also think thereâs credence to the idea that your brain creates âpathways,â if you will, to well-used âroadsâ of thinking when in doubt. Certainly a degree of self-absorption plays a role. However, happiness is also a rich and complex concept, with a plethora of words to describe subtleties of the feeling, so by rights, isnât it equally addictive? The societal pursuit of it seems to be. Ultimately, I think that imagining depression is a choice, one that is created and perpetuated by the depressive person, means the onus is on them for how badly they feel. This type of thinking exacerbates the suffering that the depressive is already experiencing. It also doesnât seem fair when itâs likely a matter of wonky chemistry and predisposition. Believing itâs âsimplyâ a choice is akin to the archaic and ignorant idea that depression is a âluxury.â
Luxury is too fun for it to be likened to depression. While I think there are elements of choice in the sense that the depressive can work to inhibit a full onslaught of depression, moving it from the caliber of âhigh fidelityâ to âlow fidelity,â I think itâs a disease that people donât like to think about despite its prevalence. If one had cancer (other than lung cancer) then people would not blame the one who has it. Despite the progress made to understand and consequently reduce the stigma of depression, thereâs still a stigma attached to it. I think itâs because people want those around them to reflect their illusion that life has meaning and is ‘good.â One only has to turn to Instagram or Facebook to see that the appearance of a perfect and happy life is a common objective. Ultimately, however, these are idle ruminations because once the curtain of depression descends, logic and reason do not enter. For me, depression is akin to a bad acid trip: one side of me recognizes that the perceptions and feelings are not ârealâ and that I must simply wait for it to pass. The other side of me feels that my bleak perception of myself and the world, and the âinevitableâ outcomes for my emotions, are very real. Itâs tortuous.
If you love someone that struggles with depression and you would like to support them, I suggest the following: keep a wide berth. Not really. In fact, try to let the depressive know (without being oppressively cloying) through verbal and non verbal actions, that they’re not completely alone and they do matter to someone. But don’t use platitudes, that’s horrible. Try to be honest. When in doubt, humor always helps.