Doctors distinguish between situational and clinical depression. The situational sort is triggered by a stressful event; clinical denotes a more durable desolation, brought on by who knows what, some trick of mind. Situational is more curable, as grievances dwindle with distance. Clinical’s likely chronic like a spastic colon; drugs may ameliorate but it isn’t going away.
The distinction is misleading. Sadness predictably locates a cause. We say we’re down in the dumps because. Self-diagnoses are likely mistaken but they console. Having kicked the cat, which bore no responsibility, we feel better.
Depression is attributable less to stressors than to depth perception. Reasons for gloom abound: we die, lose those we love, fail in our attempts. Humanity misbehaves. The higher we dream, the more we disappoint. To feel joyous amidst such sorrows obliges us either to ignore the evidence or propound placating nonsense. We don’t really die, love is eternal, failure is success, humanity has its strong points, time heals all wounds, etc. – the balm of bromides! When Alfred E. Neumann, MAD magazine’s goofy mascot, was introduced (I was three at the time), this point was underscored: happiness is the province of small-fries and half-wits: who else grins “What – me worry?” Tolstoy made the same point differently when he sighed to be a tree.
I am prone to depression. Twice it’s KO’d me, taking me many weeks to stagger back to my feet. Often it’s threatened to. I am vigilant about its symptoms, expecting a recurrence. Whether my depression is classified as situational or clinical makes no difference to its prey. It hurts, it’s scary, it’s dangerous. In its grip, abominable thoughts overrule sense. One may jump to crazy conclusions and, God forbid, act on them. Convinced you won’t recover, you may wonder if life is worth it.
November Fifth of last year wakened my old disquiet. Bereft of zeal, vocation, love, I had to hound myself to write. More than a few readers urged me to cheer up – a welcome, if impotent, exhortation. Was my sorrow event-specific? Yes. Also existential? Yes. If humanity could be so stupid, what hope for our species? As T.S. Eliot framed the question, “After such knowledge, what forgiveness?’
Fatuity couldn’t be my remedy: our predicament was “that bad,” and bound to worsen. Sugarcoating cyanide doesn’t make it less deadly. Neither is ignoring ugly facts a way to fix them. But why permit our foes to filch our joy if we can prevent it? So what to do?
Our brains, like our other digestive tract, respond to what they’re fed. Why not try sweetening my diet. Devote less time to the hour’s outrage and more to art and ideas, where the air is healthful. Wonder what makes poetry not polity. Spend mind on friends. Such thoughts are not frivolous or feckless: if humanity matters, so must these concerns. To focus on verities and not immediacies is not cowardice. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” urged Robert Herrick with heart-melting poignancy,
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying.
Redirecting one’s attention is easier said than done. Passing a bloody wreck it’s impossible not to gawk. Let me be cognizant but not preoccupied. We may be living in the end-time – I wouldn’t be surprised. All the more reason to embrace its delights and not embitter them with regrets. Reread Psalm 118 for a pick-me-up: “This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”
Is Doctor Carll’s miracle cure effective? Worth a try, I figure, and the price is right.