Friday, January 31, 2014

Black Dog

That's what some people call depression. I can't speak for other people, but the self-image that accompanies depression, that perspective of myself as flawed, makes me feel unworthy of others' affection. I've always had difficulty trying to understand why other people would want to be around me when I didn't want to be around myself. A certain torment exists in being unable to escape myself, to get out of my own head. Others have told me to let them choose if they want to be around me. Maybe that's why suicidal tendencies always have been so present. How else to get away? A friend recently told my wife that, at a gathering years ago, she was introducing me to people and I told her to stop because I didn't have anything to offer. On the contrary, she thought, I was one of the people present who actually did have something to offer. So a disconnect exists between self-perception and outside perception. Then I come across as aloof, a loner, antisocial, someone who just doesn't like people. Not entirely true. It's just that I tend to like fewer people than most other people do. I have a low tolerance for ignorance and rudeness, of which no shortage exists. Maybe that stems from such a longstanding inability to accept my own deficiencies.
Do the feelings of inadequacy come from within, or do they arise out of impossible expectations from, say, a mother. My mother never made a secret out of the fact that I was her salvation. Redemption through the youngest child. I've worked through the feelings of inadequacy in stages. First, a sort of denial, the gnawing feeling inside of me playing tug of war with the knowledge that I could accomplish. I thought accomplishment might lead to redemption, but no.And always guilt. As a younger man, achievement was to be the balm. Hence, good grades, good athleticism--self-worth through these accomplishments and validation by my mother. A good job. All a coverup, a facade. Nothin'.
Eventually the weight, the cumulative effect, and a crash. Electroconvulsive therapy. Too much to bear. The terrifying realization that you might not survive on your own. Your life lies in the hands of someone coursing electricity through your brain. Then shame. Shame in facing people who know the truth. My cover blown. Then an odyssey of prescription drugs that continues and likely will never end. Then the weight begins to build anew, and I struggle to keep it at bay. The job, the house, the kids, whereas previously I couldn't even hold myself up. The cycle repeating itself. So, how to deal?
The medications that don't really work all that well. Then there's alcohol as a lubricant. I tend to lubricate to excess. It killed my father at 49, and seeing as I'm in the proximity of that age, and a father myself, I'm forced to consider the wisdom of taking the slow route to suicide and the ramification that it has on others.
I wonder if alcohol is a symptom of the depression or a result of the depression? Alcohol in unsustainable quantities. Alcohol that makes my kids see me in disturbing ways. John Hiatt says "drink ain't no solution, I ain't had one in 17 years."
For Pete Townshend, however much he boozes, there ain't no way out. Kris Kristofferson talks about chasing the feeling. And Nick Lowe sums it up.
Here's a horrifying article from 1995.
And here's another, more recent.
People suffer. People bear weight. People cope differently.
A common refrain heard from people who have suffered from addiction refers to "hitting bottom." I don't know what my bottom is, but I haven't felt like I've hit it. I don't see myself as an AA-type guy. Hey, I've already said I like fewer people than most. And my experience with Adult Children of Alcoholics didn't go so well while I was in college or thereabouts. First, an older guy invited me back to his place. I thought, well, he seemed sympathetic, so, what the fuck? At his place, a younger, male friend of his showed up. Now, my weirdness radar wasn't going off yet, but then the older guy started playing French love songs on his piano. Ok, a little weird, but I was new to this kind of thing. And apparently naive. Finally, I got out of there, physically unscathed, but perhaps not psychologically, for when I related this experience to and older friend, he told me I was a "mark." As in, those guys wanted to fuck you. Aw, shit. I went back to a few meetings, and, naturally, a variety of different people attended. But for the most part, I got tired of listening to the whining. So, fuck it, I stopped going.
A friend asked me recently why I haven't been writing. I said I have been, just not publishing it. But, really, the truth is that the self-examination required to compose disclosures such as this can be daunting. Instead of being cathartic, the thought of it can be dread-inducing. And if it's not helping anybody else, then what's the use? Ok, I don't always write about, 'Oh, I'm depressed and I'm drinking too much.' Sometimes I just write about oddball or funny shit. But that stuff doesn't come along every day, and lately this kind of stuff has been occupying my mind. As they say at AA meetings, take what you like and leave the rest. As I write this, on the TV in front of me (NAT GEO WILD), some kind of African fox-like creature is trying to kill a vulture-like creature. (The fox wins, but the vulture put up a good fight). Then I think, hey, that's like me, one thing always tearing at the other.