"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
invoke intense emotion.
I was also 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 in retrospect it's
clear that I was
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, I was able to spend time with them occasionally. And 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, being
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 happy 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 them, but I myself don't fully understand it. Which makes my full recovery seem even more miraculous as we will see.
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
stirrings of something
I thought I might
never experience
again: excitement. I
slept reasonably well
and woke up on
Christmas morning and
experienced a strange
sensation
...happiness. I'd almost forgotten it 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 present
opening, 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
mange 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
that I 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
inspired by a couple
of lines from Ada
Limón (current Poet
Laureate and one of
the finest in the US),
whose book I had
brought with me,
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.
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,
are 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
birth. My regular
check-ins with my son
mentioned above 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. I
have no intention of
wading into the
question of whether
madness leads to
creativity or vice
versa. It's a
ridiculous question as
well as probably
unanswerable. However,
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 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 in
my case 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 book 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. You've
gotten yourself
through this. You're
continuing to get
yourself through
this. So, in
a big way, finding the
right order of poems
for this book was a
healing experience."
(The full interview,
found at https://www.full-stop.net/2024/06/18/interviews/lizakatzduncan/cynthia-marie-hoffman/
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
maintaining a balance
between those
endeavors and living
my daily life.
Regardless of how one
looks at these issues,
for me and I imagine
many other creatives,
it's a
one-day-at-a-time
situation that
requires constant
awareness and regular
rebalancing. It can be
exhausting, but the
outcome both in terms
of handling madness
and producing art has
great rewards. not
only for the artist
but, one hopes, for
the world at large.
Notes and Resources
Committed by Suzanne Scanlon (Vintage Books, 2024) is the single most important inspiration for this memoir. I had been wanting to write something about my experiences related herein, but was uncertain where and how to begin. Scanlon's unflinchingly honest narration of her own struggle with madness and the mental "health" "system" and the lessons she drew from it crystallized and clarified much of my own up to them inchoate thinking. I can't recommend it enough for anyone interested in alternative views of madness and its interplay with creativity.
Cynthia Marie Hoffman's book Exploding Head is available for order here:
https://www.perseabooks.com/exploadinghead
I would also recommend
visiting the Mad in
America website for
extremely provocative,
challenging, and
useful perspectives on
mental illness in
general: https://www.madinamerica.com/
|