I love Gretchen Rubin’s name for technology: the cubicle in your pocket. So true. I’ve detailed here how I’ve been trying to use technology strategically. When I have the luxury of limiting online time, I enjoy myself immensely. I find, however, that most days I simply have to mow through a lot of work that I necessarily accomplish at my terminal. Also, if I’m depressed I don’t care what I stare at blankly — a computer screen is as good as anything else. Despite these issues, I’m committed to using technology more selectively.
Speaking of which, I simply must get off. I’m bored of my hunching-over-my-laptop sore back, and am ready for a revitalizing-my-yoga-practice sore back.
Two more quick notes: What with one thing and another, I’ve been connecting more with people at work. I had lunch with my friend Robin (the surreptitious progressive) and with a colleague from my company’s association for disabled people, and arranged to have tea on Sunday with my two favorite data managers. I even hung out with some of the cool IT folk while they did a weekly audit of a couple of laptops that I hold. I’m even in the beginning stages of a crush on one of the software engineers (I haven’t looked at his left ring finger yet — he probably has two wives and 10 kids). So, yeah, more in-person contact, less on-screen living.
My Intensive Outpatient Program has been a remarkable success. I find myself oddly reluctant to find happiness, however. On some level I feel that if I get better now, I have to feel guilty and responsible for not having done so sooner. Ugh.
A final note: my sister will be in town next week with my niece and nephew in tow. Yay! I love them so.
Here’s an ebook on how to use email consciously. I can’t vouch for it — I haven bought it yet — but it fits with my attempts to be learn a more conscious approach to new media.
I’m sorry to be so scarce in this space. I’m attending an Intensive Outpatient Program at a local hospital, and it’s just tremendously beneficial. I’m waking up a lot later, though, so it limits my writing time. If it continues to be helpful, I’ll probably continue to struggle to write. The weekend is coming, though, so perhaps that will help.
I started my intensive outpatient program last week, and it’s, um, intensive. On Monday I was away from home between 6:00 a.m. and 8:30 p.m. I’ll be posting less here, then, since I really need to preserve my energy and attention. My apologies.
In other news, I’m taking two meds that are notorious weight gainers. I’m constantly hungry, and I’ve put on seven pounds so far. The gentlemen of my acquaintance seem pleased, and I like what I’m seeing. I was getting a little gaunt. It’s easier to pull off extremes of thin before your 40th birthday. I figure I’ve got at least another 10 lbs to go before I need to throw on the brakes.
Lately I’ve been thinking about a disturbing trend: When I’m seriously depressed, I actively resist simple strategies that would help me to feel better. A friend of mine emailed me a story that captured this very human perversity perfectly. He writes:
Okay, I am depressed. How do I know this? Because of my 3-year old nephew.
[My nephew] loves pie. I think he loves pie more than anything else in the world. He is a pie junkie. If my sister tells him that there is pie for dessert he will do almost anything to make sure that he gets it.
But then there are other times… there are times he will refuse to eat even a small fraction of his dinner, even if it is a dinner he would normally like. When told he won’t get pie unless he eats some chicken, he will yell, quite falsely, “I don’t want pie!” After he is then informed that okay, since he doesn’t want pie he won’t get pie, [he] will throw himself to the floor, crying and screaming.
So he’s on the floor, and my sister calmly tells him he is welcome to have pie after he eats just a little chicken. The choice is his. Somehow, this just makes things worse. He digs in his heels. Next he is told that it doesn’t matter if he wants pie, he is going to eat some chicken. No TV, no toys, no bed, no leaving the kitchen. [He] has no choice but to eat some chicken. After 30 minutes of stalling, stammering, everything he can do to delay the inevitable, Nathan swallows his sixth bite of chicken and is offered a slice of pie. He accepts, grudgingly, and downs his pie silently. This is not the pie he wants. This is the pie of defeat.
As an adult, I’m both parent and fussy toddler, and therefore the struggle is even more tiresome: I know that taking a walk, say, consistently makes me feel better, but I’m so overcome with a certain depression-specific apathy that I choose depressing activities over ones that will almost certainly energize me. The problem, I think, is that it’s tiring to make even the simplest effort, and though I often feel better while, say, walking, the depression comes crashing back over me once I’m done. A temporary mood lift doesn’t seem worth the effort.
The previous makes some sense. As I write, though, I’m conscious that there’s a more pure perversity at work, too, a flat-out rejection of simple pleasures. Another friend who comments in this space likes to recount an exchange we had 10 or 12 years ago. It went a little something like this:
Me, grudgingly dressing on a winter morning: Damn it, my jeans are still wet.
Him: Why don’t you iron them dry? They would be nice and warm and dry then.
Me, in a tone of flat contempt: Bullshit.
Of course, warm jeans are delightful on a chilly winter morning. But I didn’t want to be delighted, and I felt insulted at the suggestion that a trivial material comfort might ameliorate my exquisite suffering. Or something. On certain days, this perversity pervades everything. I don’t have anything especially clever to say about this tendency, but I have wanted to note it for several days now. So, irritating, self-destructive tendency noted.
Here’s some happy news: Last week I started an intensive outpatient program at a local hospital, and so far I’m loving it. Good thing, since it entails nine hours a week of therapy, including stress management techniques, mindfulness exercises, and the like. More on this later, including an observation on the one thing that did annoy me about the first session.
If you take a look at the picture that leads off this story in The New York Times about the “immense subtlety and beauty” of Alexander McQueen’s final designs, you, too, may snicker, “Hmm. Apparently a use of the word ‘subtle’ that I’ve never before encountered.”
That’s all. I just had to share that.
I apologize, too, for the dismayingly fragmented nature of this morning’s post. Oops.
The author of If You’re Going Through Hell Keep Going is on to something in this short post about the comfort of depression. At the end of a hard day — or, really, any day at all — there’s nothing I like more than snuggling under the quilt my mom made me and playing rain noises on my iPhone. My bed is a lovely place to be. My head, not so much.
Doesn’t the word “happiness” start to look strange if you study it?
Another thing: I find it hard to read the excellent blog The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive because the author is so damn perceptive. Here she publishes two pieces that weren’t originally intended as blog entries. In the first, she reflects on the difficulties of being on the “other side of the bedside divide” — that is, on being a mourner or comforter rather than a sufferer. She gives some personal history in the second short essay, and muses on the significance of getting a diagnosis after years of considering herself “mental” (a nice British word) rather than mentally ill. The life she’s living is not at all the life she imagined for herself.
A year or so ago, yoga played a huge role in my life. My home practice was almost bizarrely advanced, and I dreamed of becoming a certified yoga instructor so that I could bring the delights of a regular practice to my sedentary colleagues. One bright morning, though, I stopped, probably because I was working 12 hours a day and spending my remaining waking hours in the company of a boyfriend whom I loved deeply.
Of course, it’s not unusual to give up important disciplines when working this hard. This time around, though, my avoidance of a deeply satisfying process gradually blossomed into a bitter and totally irrational conviction that I couldn’t do yoga no matter how much I might enjoy it. I would consider going to a class or simply starting out with a sun salutation or six, and I would feel, not my usual laziness, but a perverse certainty that yoga was now somehow beyond my power; I’ve noticed this problem in connection with other pastimes that bring me happiness, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I’ve puzzled and puzzled, but I can’t figure out why I began to think, not that I didn’t want to do yoga, but that I literally could not do it. The thought made me sad, but I really had become certain that a beloved activity was beyond my power. That’s the perversity of depression, folks, and it’s discouraging as hell.
Naturally I always knew that I could do it if someone held a gun to my head, and I did recently overcome this bizarre reluctance, mostly because I’d developed a chronic backache that contributed to my crappy mood. The minute I unrolled my yoga mat and dropped into a forward fold my body yelped, Good Lord, this feels wonderful! Painful, but wonderful! My whole body ached for three days after I performed the mildest of routines, but I broke through my mental block effortlessly and became hooked on yoga euphoria again.
This depressive perversity has taken over other aspects of my life — praying the Liturgy of the Hours comes to mind — and I have no idea where it comes from or how to counter it. It may be that understanding is the booby prize; despite what they teach you in therapy, merely having insight into a problem does not much help me to change. Insight is always very nice, but it’s no substitute for judgment, and I return to William Styron’s all-too-accurate observation: When you’re depressed, you wouldn’t creep three steps to pick a pill that might cure you entirely. This drives me and others batshit — it’s insidious, dangerous, and true without a doubt. In consequence, my capacity for suffering far outweighs my ability to help myself.
Is this another one of those entirely normal aspects of the human condition that seems unprecedented to me? Please do comment.
Another sign of hope returning: My admittedly silly fantasy of learning Latin. Talk about perverse — I’m more or less accomplished in three languages besides my native tongue, but nothing will do for me but to read Ovid and Augustine in the original. I’ve hired a tutor and bought armloads of textbooks even though I know that it’s unlikely that I will follow through. So, another truism about the human condition: As Alexander Pope observed, hope springs eternal in the human breast. (The brilliant literary critic Murray Krieger (he of the hilarious and touching baby blue polyester suits) used to tell us that just about every threadbare English expression can be traced back to one of those three sources. I would add a more recent fourth: Winston Churchill.) A part of me knows that I’m almost certain to disappoint myself again, but, darn it, I’m driven to try.
Another one of those almost entirely irrelevant observations that I’m sure you’ve all come to love: The Eyes of Stanley Pain is the best album in the entire world, and today I feel compelled to share it. I especially recommend “Suni C” and “Base Metal.” The lyrics to the former both frighten and move me — they seem strengely manic-y. Here’s the matching video:
And here’s the video for “Base Metal”:
This song makes me profoundly happy, perhaps because of the looped background sound of rain.
One last note: Alarmingly, the new shrink I tried had stocked his waiting room with brochures hyping Concerta, a drug intended to “manage the challenges of ADHD.” Get a load of these quiz questions:
1. How often do you have trouble wrapping up the final details of a project, once the challenging parts have been done?
2. How often do you have difficulty getting things in order when you have to do a task that requires organization?
3. How often do you have trouble remembering appointments or obligations?
4. When you have a task that requires a lot of thought, how long do you avoid or delay getting started
And so forth. For the whole quiz in all of its delicious absurdity, click here. I’ve created a shorter version:
1. Do you have a pulse?
2. Do you have health insurance?
You’d better ask your doctor about ADHD quick, before you fall behind in the competitive global marketplace. Never mind the following black box warning: “Concerta should be given cautiously to patients with a history of drug dependence or alcoholism. Chronic abusive use can lead to marked tolerance and psychological dependence, with varying degrees of abnormal behavior.” What do you want to bet that bored lab monkeys self-administer this drug?
That’s enough for now. This is one of two draft posts that I’ve been avoiding for days, and I’m looking forward to hitting “Publish” though the writing continues to suck.
After reading Susan’s latest post to If You’re Going Through Hell Keep Going, I paged down to find the links that she recommends for depressed people who are considering suicide. That’s how I stumbled on Suicide: Read This First. This excellent resource considers the following idea: “Suicide is not chosen; it happens when pain exceeds resources for coping with pain.” I’d never heard that formulation before, and I think it’s brilliant. The best way to avoid suicide is not to strive fruitlessly to cheer up, but rather to increase one’s resources until they outweigh the pain.
And speaking of resources, I’ve finally taken concrete steps to replace my psychiatrist. I have appointments today and early next week to give two new shrinks a try. I’ve wanted to do this for months, but have had no idea how to go about finding a doctor who shows up on time for appointments and reads the package inserts before giving me sample medications. For once it only took one call to set things in motion — I just got in touch with the Employee Assistance Program counselor for my company. I’ve used our concierge service to find cat sitters and an accountant, but I’ve always felt obscurely that I couldn’t hope to get help with a nasty task like hiring a shrink. After an hour-long appointment I felt such renewed hope that I sent the counselor flowers. It was that good.
In fact, yesterday was one of my few normal days. Halfway through my work day I thought, “Hey, it’s not so terrible to be here!” When I’m depressed I carry my misery everywhere; when I’m normal I’m capable of enjoying the challenges and rewards of both my private and work lives.
I found Jonathan Meade’s latest post to Illuminated Mind provocative. I was all ready to get riled after reading the headline: “Choose Not to Fail.” As it turns out, he makes a valuable point. All too often, we decide to try to do something rather than to succeed at it. When you choose to succeed, you’re almost unstoppable; when you merely try, you’re setting yourself up for failure.
I’ve experienced the power of choosing not to fail in my own life. I started grad school with a couple of material disadvantages compared to the other members of my cohort, all of whom hailed from Ivy League universities, and many of whom already had an M.A. (They almost certainly had better grades coming in to grad school, too, since in many ways I’m an indifferent student.) When the director of our three related programs addressed us, his remarks reminded me of an old Far Side cartoon in which an adult praying mantis tells a crowd of hatchlings, “Of course, most of you will be eaten.” Right then and there I swore that I was going to kick ass, take names, and come out with a doctorate. I thought, If nothing else, I’ll live the life of the mind for several years. Almost a decade later I was the first of a dozen little mantises to graduate.
Now, you may object, “Sure, you got your degree, but it was a perverse thing to do.” Well, yes, my goal could have been better chosen, and I now routinely encourage the occasional Ph.D. candidates I meet to drop out before it’s too late. I am proud that I succeeded against rotten odds, though, and even though my education hasn’t proven practical, having it has illuminated my mind beyond measure. To give a simple example, when I walk through a museum, I recognize the various gods, heroes and saints that paintings portray. Having a nodding acquaintance with the Western tradition has animated philosophy, literature, and history for me. I didn’t stay in the field, but I did get what I wanted out of my academic career.
I can think of one other possible objection. Getting my degree was a bloody struggle — when I think back, I marvel at the death-defying feats it required. At the same time, I’m pretty sure I was never fated to coast along happily. The Furies probably would have chased me down any path I chose.
Even a moderate helping of education brings a certain amount of indigestion, of course. This brings me back to the reckless deployment of “whom” that I described yesterday. It’s occurred to me since that we ought to have a sort of national licensing board for pronouns, a United States version of the Academie francaise. No more “Her and I went to the bank,” or “She’s the friend that I love the most.” I’m thinking that the Pronoun Control Board would issue licenses in a tiered system, much as the Motor Vehicle Department allows you to apply to drive anything from a common car to a big rig. Most people outside of New York and San Francisco have to pass a driving test; we should approach learning to write with the same seriousness.
Of course, creating such a board would have its own perils. Whoever first acts as “They” would almost certainly pack the board with pretentious conservatives like William Bennett, and we’d end up like the French, who still have no feminine-gender nouns for many professions.
Perhaps it would be better to settle for a less ambitious scheme.
Mandatory desk-side cultivation of either Magic Rocks or Sea Monkeys might exercise a similar civilizing influence.