03 June 2013
09 October 2011
I Will Survive
It’s been a little over a year since Shannon died, and it’s been rough. Random things make me think “I’ve got to tell Shannon about this”, and then it hits me that I can’t. I cannot describe the wave of sadness that momentarily overwhelms me. It hits like a tsunami and tugs me under churning debris before it recedes and leaves standing, miraculously, on solid land.
The irony is that I’m able to land on solid ground largely because of the man I lost. The years of taking care of him taught me how to be a man. Our endless conversation gave me the strength of my convictions. I learned to love without condition and to accept his on the same terms. I learned to be patient. He made me more human and, thereby, better equipped to survive without him.
And I am surviving.
My life is very different than it was before. I have to keep up with when bills are due (something he did really well) and feed the cats. I keep up with my doctor appointments instead of his. I am the patient instead of “being patient”.
Everything about him challenged me to grow into a better person. I returned the favor, and we grew into people I could be proud of. It was a great life, even with its challenges. They were opportunities for growth, not obstacles.
The tsunami hits every day or two. Some days, it comes in periodic waves. Either way, I end up on solid ground standing on my own two feet, waiting for the next one to hit. Still, I’m surviving.
If he were here, I’d say goodnight about now. And, in a way, he is.
So, “Goodnight, sweetie. Get some good sleep."
"I’ll see you on the other side.”
The irony is that I’m able to land on solid ground largely because of the man I lost. The years of taking care of him taught me how to be a man. Our endless conversation gave me the strength of my convictions. I learned to love without condition and to accept his on the same terms. I learned to be patient. He made me more human and, thereby, better equipped to survive without him.
And I am surviving.
My life is very different than it was before. I have to keep up with when bills are due (something he did really well) and feed the cats. I keep up with my doctor appointments instead of his. I am the patient instead of “being patient”.
Everything about him challenged me to grow into a better person. I returned the favor, and we grew into people I could be proud of. It was a great life, even with its challenges. They were opportunities for growth, not obstacles.
The tsunami hits every day or two. Some days, it comes in periodic waves. Either way, I end up on solid ground standing on my own two feet, waiting for the next one to hit. Still, I’m surviving.
If he were here, I’d say goodnight about now. And, in a way, he is.
So, “Goodnight, sweetie. Get some good sleep."
"I’ll see you on the other side.”
04 July 2011
The Celexa Chronicles
The saga continues. I’ve been taking Celexa for almost 2 months now, and I continue to be amazed by what feeling like normal feels like. By what it feels like to think clearly and see the humor in life. The simple joy of an incisive and witty phrase well-turned.
I had forgotten what it feels like to laugh. Somewhere amidst all the darkness, I lost my bemusement and amusement at the daily absurdities we all confront. Instead of simply accepting that many parts of life are absurd and not within my control, I began to equate absurdity with injustice, two very different concepts. The latter requires conscious action by someone; the former simply is.
Every day, I feel better, farther away from that abyss I fear so much. Every time I laugh, I savor the kernel of joy that comes with that primeval response to humor. It tastes like sunlight with a honey, orange and ginger dressing.
The life outside my mind hasn’t changed. I’m still recently bereaved and trying to learn how to live as a single man. A man who’s rapidly aging. My life still revolves to a greater or lesser degree around medical appointments. I still have a blood clot and am still recovering from hip surgery. My work is still demanding, and my bank account still always too low.
My response to that reality is profoundly different, though, than what it was a couple of months ago. All those things seem manageable, somehow, in a way they didn’t. They were probably manageable all along, but I couldn’t see it. Not through all the darkness.
I still miss Shannon. That’ll never change. I miss my first partner, Rich, who died over 15 years ago. It took a while for that grief to modulate into a fond longing. It will take a while this time to.
But I can see that more clearly than I have been able to up until now. It doesn’t mitigate the pain, but I now believe the pain is survivable.
I had forgotten what it feels like to laugh. Somewhere amidst all the darkness, I lost my bemusement and amusement at the daily absurdities we all confront. Instead of simply accepting that many parts of life are absurd and not within my control, I began to equate absurdity with injustice, two very different concepts. The latter requires conscious action by someone; the former simply is.
Every day, I feel better, farther away from that abyss I fear so much. Every time I laugh, I savor the kernel of joy that comes with that primeval response to humor. It tastes like sunlight with a honey, orange and ginger dressing.
The life outside my mind hasn’t changed. I’m still recently bereaved and trying to learn how to live as a single man. A man who’s rapidly aging. My life still revolves to a greater or lesser degree around medical appointments. I still have a blood clot and am still recovering from hip surgery. My work is still demanding, and my bank account still always too low.
My response to that reality is profoundly different, though, than what it was a couple of months ago. All those things seem manageable, somehow, in a way they didn’t. They were probably manageable all along, but I couldn’t see it. Not through all the darkness.
I still miss Shannon. That’ll never change. I miss my first partner, Rich, who died over 15 years ago. It took a while for that grief to modulate into a fond longing. It will take a while this time to.
But I can see that more clearly than I have been able to up until now. It doesn’t mitigate the pain, but I now believe the pain is survivable.
22 June 2011
Ressurection
One of the great ironies of depression is that it’s hard to see from the inside. From the inner perspective it can look like moodiness, frustration with everyday events, an inexplicable loss of good judgment or an intense desire to be alone in a small world that you can control. From inside, nothing ties all those things together and names them symptoms of depression.
The irony continues when one gets treatment for depression. As the medication begins to take effect, all of this becomes clearer, the parts fitting together into a whole. And the depressed person realizes acutely just how dark his life had become. From within depression, the darkness seems normal. Outside of it, it leads to questions like “Why couldn’t I see this?” and “Shouldn’t I have known?”
That’s the punch line: depressed people often cannot put a name on what’s changed in their lives other than that they are unhappier. They say “stressed” or “under pressure”. They say “I can’t sleep”. They say they’re lonely and/or don’t care about anything and want to be alone.
No part of the experience makes sense until the depression begins to lift. Then the picture gradually becomes so clear one wonders how they missed it. Why they didn’t see it before.
And contrary to popular myth, antidepressants aren’t “happy pills”. They don’t create an artificial happiness that wasn’t there before but had been superceded by the dark side. Pills don’t create happiness: they only allow happiness to be more of an option. They don’t mask or dilute pain, but they do allow the individual to deal with those emotions more sanely.
It’s been about a month for me on Celexa, and I kick myself for not talking to my doctor sooner. I suppose that I didn’t want to admit that I was weak and needed help. I really don’t know. Nothing was very clear when I was teetering along the edge of the abyss.
A month in, things are much clearer. I’m back to being me. Hopelessly romantic and optimistic. Instead of seeing what is and retreating inside myself, I see what is and what could be. I can laugh at the absurdity of daily life instead of taking it as a personal affront.
The only side effects have been some dry-mouth and loss of libido ("dead dick" in the parlance). I can always drink more water, and since I gave up promiscuity a decade ago, not caring about sex is something of a blessing. I ain't getting none any time soon, but I don't care. It's one less thing to distract me.
In short, I have a perspective that I lacked a few short weeks ago. A perspective that is more in line with normal functioning for me than what I had become.
People have noticed. They ask me if I’ve changed my hair or lost weight. (“No” to both: my hair is still gray and I’ve put on 10 lbs.) They say I look “healthier”, whatever that means. They know something’s different, but they can’t quite put a finger on what it is.
The difference is that I’m back. The real me is present again. I'm in the house.
I feel almost like I’ve been raised from the dead.
The irony continues when one gets treatment for depression. As the medication begins to take effect, all of this becomes clearer, the parts fitting together into a whole. And the depressed person realizes acutely just how dark his life had become. From within depression, the darkness seems normal. Outside of it, it leads to questions like “Why couldn’t I see this?” and “Shouldn’t I have known?”
That’s the punch line: depressed people often cannot put a name on what’s changed in their lives other than that they are unhappier. They say “stressed” or “under pressure”. They say “I can’t sleep”. They say they’re lonely and/or don’t care about anything and want to be alone.
No part of the experience makes sense until the depression begins to lift. Then the picture gradually becomes so clear one wonders how they missed it. Why they didn’t see it before.
And contrary to popular myth, antidepressants aren’t “happy pills”. They don’t create an artificial happiness that wasn’t there before but had been superceded by the dark side. Pills don’t create happiness: they only allow happiness to be more of an option. They don’t mask or dilute pain, but they do allow the individual to deal with those emotions more sanely.
It’s been about a month for me on Celexa, and I kick myself for not talking to my doctor sooner. I suppose that I didn’t want to admit that I was weak and needed help. I really don’t know. Nothing was very clear when I was teetering along the edge of the abyss.
A month in, things are much clearer. I’m back to being me. Hopelessly romantic and optimistic. Instead of seeing what is and retreating inside myself, I see what is and what could be. I can laugh at the absurdity of daily life instead of taking it as a personal affront.
The only side effects have been some dry-mouth and loss of libido ("dead dick" in the parlance). I can always drink more water, and since I gave up promiscuity a decade ago, not caring about sex is something of a blessing. I ain't getting none any time soon, but I don't care. It's one less thing to distract me.
In short, I have a perspective that I lacked a few short weeks ago. A perspective that is more in line with normal functioning for me than what I had become.
People have noticed. They ask me if I’ve changed my hair or lost weight. (“No” to both: my hair is still gray and I’ve put on 10 lbs.) They say I look “healthier”, whatever that means. They know something’s different, but they can’t quite put a finger on what it is.
The difference is that I’m back. The real me is present again. I'm in the house.
I feel almost like I’ve been raised from the dead.
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