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Note:
This piece is an
expanded version of one
chapter of a memoir
originally published in Scene4.
I have revised and
expanded it. It now
forms the conclusion to
the finished memoir
entitled A Lesson in Resurrection.
“To
be forever hungry,
this excess of desire,
this wouldn’t
ever be held by a
medical-pharmaceutical
model of illness, but
it would be held by a
life dedicated to
reading, writing, to
art.” —Suzanne Scanlon, Committed
My 65th year began
rather less
auspiciously than one
would want. Freshly
discharged from the
halfway house for
recovering mental
patients, I came home
on (metaphorically)
shaky legs to try to
put my life back
together. I had no idea
whether I would ever
fully recover and
resume my creative life
or return to the
activities, like
listening to music,
biking, and
birdwatching, that had
given me so much
pleasure in the past. I
did resume reading,
though I had to stick
to relatively light
material and avoid
things that might evoke
intense emotion.
I was more inclined to
do simple activities
like eating and short
walks, and in general
got out of the house
more and spent time
with friends other than
my partner. In
reviewing some Facebook
memories recently I
also discovered that I
had begun posting and
interacting on social
media again.
I still had little
energy and felt a
pervading numbness, but
I can now see that I
was indeed recovering.
I was taking little
pleasure in the things
I was doing, but I was doing them. I slogged through autumn, spending a bit more time outdoors, eating and sleeping better, not feeling happy but at least less depressed. My anxiety eased somewhat as well, in large part because the worst of my delusional fears had not been realized. I hadn’t lost my sons, and I was able to spend time with them. Remarkably (it seemed), rather than being broke and facing homelessness or crippling medical debt, I was stunned to discover a sum in my bank account higher than any I’d ever had. Other than rent and the small amount I was spending on food, I had few expenses and I quickly ran though my medical insurance deductibles while my various sources of monthly income kept putting money into my account.
The surest sign that I
was
recovering—again
in hindsight—came
at Thanksgiving. I was
not in shape to travel
to see my family in
Texas, so my partner,
her daughter and I
decided to have an
untraditional dinner at
a local barbecue joint.
Even though the food
was far from the
quality I would
normally prefer as a
Texan, it was more than
adequate and I actively
enjoyed eating it. Even
more unexpected,
despite the fact that
it was a very cold and
cloudy day, I decided I
wanted to take a quick
trip to the river and
look for birds. My
partner, of course, was
glad to go along and
happily her daughter
was willing as well,
even though I offered
to take her home first.
I am sure she
understood how much of
a breakthrough this
desire to birdwatch
really was. We
didn’t see many
birds, but again, the
fact I even wanted to
look was significant.
Despite all these signs of improvement, I still didn’t feel very well. I wish I could explain why I wasn’t able to get the full emotional benefit from these developments, but I myself don’t fully understand it. Which makes my full recovery seem even more miraculous.
I traversed the month
between Thanksgiving
and Christmas 2018
finally noticing slight
improvements in mood.
As the holiday
approached, my partner
and I made plans to
spend a few days on the
Eastern Shore of
Maryland, one of my
favorite places. I was
somewhat apprehensive
about traveling even a
relatively short
distance while my
emotions were still
quite shaky, but after
all my partner had done
—and
sacrificed—for
me, I felt I owed it to
her. I think I also
wanted to take a leap
and overcome some of my
fears.
Christmas Eve was the
date that the miracle
began to unfold. I was
scheduled to spend
Christmas Day with my
sons at their
mother’s house.
(We had been able to
maintain a cordial
relationship and work
together bringing up
our boys.) I went to
bed and felt I tiny bit
of something I thought
I might never
experience again:
excitement. I slept
reasonably well and
woke up on Christmas
morning and felt
stirrings of something
I’d almost
forgotten was
possible…happiness.
I made the trek to my
ex’s home and
drank a great deal of
coffee, making up for
lost time. After
opening presents, my
younger son and I took
a long walk around the
neighborhood where I
confided in him that I
thought I might be
truly out of the
emotional abyss. (This
walk provided the germ
of a plan that he and I
continue to this day
that each of us
occasionally checks in
with the other
regarding our emotional
well-being. The
suggestion came from
him, which demonstrates
his remarkable ability
to manage his own
turbulent emotions.) We
returned in time for
dinner, which I ate
voraciously, finally
able to savor the taste
and texture of food
again.
I was at first hesitant
to divulge to anyone
else that I had had
come out of the
darkness: I had some
fear that it was a
brief, temporary
remission, and that
I’d soon slip
backwards. But a couple
of days passed and I
still felt good,
listening to music,
eating things I liked,
and reading, especially
poetry.
So when my partner and
I had checked into our
motel in Cambridge,
Maryland, for our
mini-vacation, I
spilled it to her. We
spent the next several
days exploring
Cambridge and the
surrounding area,
including birding at
Blackwater NWR, one of
my favorite birding
hotspots, and visiting
the nearby newly-opened
Harriet Tubman Museum.
On my own, I discovered
several fine coffee
shops and partook as I
had not in many months.
In one of these
establishments I
drafted a poem entitled
“A Lesson,”
inspired by these lines
from the poem “The
Vulture & the
Body” by Ada Limón, then Poet Laureate and one of my absolute favorite poets:
“The great black
scavenger flies
parallel now, each of
us speeding, intently
and driven, toward
what we’ve been
taught to do with
death.”
I had brought her book The Carrying, another sign of recovery. That night I shared it with my partner who made some suggestions for revisions and thus I completed my first poem in over a year:
“Death faded painfully slow,
left traces. And left me
wondering if that
was the lesson.”
**********
“There is much
to be learned and
wrung from terror,
anxiety, fear: there
are still
“forms’
which the imagination
can seize from these
dark seas of the mind
and
spirit.”—Theodore
Roethke
It’s been almost
six years since my
resurrection and I have
not had any further
episodes. I wish I
could say that anxiety
had completely
vanished, but in fact,
it’s a constant
presence along the
periphery of my
awareness, a kind of
aura. But I don’t
let it guide my actions
and I no longer allow
myself to believe that
any difficult emotions
of the moment are
permanent. Sometimes it
can be dispelled by a
song or a poem,
sometimes by a walk or
bike ride; sometimes I
just have to be patient
and go on with whatever
I’m doing until
it dissolves.
My experience and my
extensive reading in
the literature of
madness have led me to
believe that there is
no cure because mental
illness—the
emotional disorders at
least— is not an
illness. The biomedical
model of treatment has
largely failed and has
yet to discover any
internal cause for
depression and its
related conditions.
Psychiatric meds,
properly prescribed and
monitored, can
certainly mitigate
symptoms sufficiently
for the patient to take
on the hard work of
symptom management,
therapy, and coping
strategies.
In my case, a
deliberate and
conscious return to the
activities like
reading, music,
birdwatching, biking,
and walks that have
always been sources of
sustenance and joy has
been a major coping
mechanism. Making the
effort to interact with
fellow humans beyond
the simple exchange of
money for goods or
requests for
information is equally
important. I now enjoy
chatting up baristas,
clerks, museum docents,
and fellow attendees of
cultural events. I have
gotten to know many of
my neighbors in the
building in which I
reside, including young
children who I have
known since their
birth. My regular
check-ins with my son
are also mutually
beneficial.
My most important tool
and one that both
derives from and makes
use of all of the above
is my writing. While
it’s highly
unlikely that
creativity leads to
madness or vice versa,
there is no doubt that
the correlation is
strong. To return to
Carl Jung’s
assertion with which I
began this memoir,
“There are hardly
any exceptions to the
rule that a person must
pay dearly for the
divine gift of the
creative fire.
”My (admittedly
sketchy) hypothesis is
that madness and
creativity exist in a
circular relationship.
The symptoms of
emotional disturbance
often spark the
creative impulse,
possibly through some
instinctive awareness
on the part of the
artist that creating
art is a powerful tool
for managing difficult
emotions. These
turbulent feelings
themselves can provide
powerful material with
which to make art.
At the same time, the
naked openness to
experience and the need
to go deeply inside
oneself to tap the
wellsprings of creative
energy carry a great
risk to many of us
“blessed”
with the divine gift,
especially if we are
also touched with
madness. As poet Frank
O’Hara says,
“You go on your
nerve.” And Emily
Dickinson, the most
important poet for me:
“If your Nerve,
deny you—Go above
your
Nerve.” So
the wheel turns. If we
are fortunate enough,
if we persist, we can
ride rather than be
crushed under it.
In any case, the efficacy of writing is reinforced every time I
write, including my
work on this piece.
Each poem, each
creative non-fiction
piece in which I engage
with my deepest
emotions, including joy
as much as those more
challenging, provides
that needed
“momentary stay
against
confusion” that
Robert Frost describes.
And I am far from
alone. In addition to
Suzanne Scanlon’s
experiences, alluded to
in the above epigraph
and elaborated in her
book, I could instance
many examples from
friends and colleagues
in poetry and other
creative writing. I
choose the following
because I happened to
encounter this poet and
her work just as I was
beginning to think
about this memoir.
I had the honor and
pleasure of meeting
Cynthia Marie Hoffman
at a literary festival
earlier this year. Her
remarkable poetry
collection, Exploding Head relates her lifelong struggles with OCD that continue to this day. The fact that she has been able to produce a marvelous body of work while sustaining a marriage and raising a child are testimony to the power of artistry in managing and even making use of madness as a creative spur. In a recent interview, in response to a question regarding whether writing the poems had been part of learning to manage her condition, she responded:
"I think this
turning point happened
in such a gradual way
in my own life that I
couldn’t
recognize that it was
happening. It
wasn’t until I
really had these Exploding Head poems
laid out in
chronological order
that I could see
clearly, OK.
Wow. You can pat
yourself on the
shoulder a little bit.
You’re doing OK.
You’ve done
OK.” (The full interview is well worth reading in its entirety along with the book.) I could hardly have done better describing my own ongoing need to produce creative work, manage symptoms of madness, and maintain a balance between those endeavors and living my daily life.
I had some serious
apprehension about
undertaking this
memoir, about engaging
again with the deep
emotions my episodes of
madness had brought on.
Did I really want to
disinter those very
memories of suffering,
to relive so many
frightening and
humiliating
experiences, to account
honestly for my own
mistakes and
unfortunate behaviors?
But as I worked, slowly
and hesitantly at
first, then with
growing enthusiasm, I
began to experience the
joy of the creative act
even when the subject
is painful or
difficult. The quiet
thrill of putting words
together, the
satisfaction of
extracting another
memory and fully
relating it, performing
the required
introspection, all came
together in a
satisfying—even
fulfilling—way.
I originally published
sections of this memoir
piecemeal in a journal
I write for. This was
the first time I had
gone public with any of
this material and I was
very gratified that my
writing resonated with
a number of readers.
I write something
almost every day now. I
have returned with
great zeal to music,
reading, birdwatching,
and especially biking.
The fact that writing
this essay and riding
my bike involves
balancing and steady
motion is not lost on
me. Balance and motion:
These keep me active
and sane enough to live
with madness and even
sometimes to draw from
it. Every day has
something to offer and
I’m generally
glad to get out of bed
and discover it.
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