William Styron, the prize-winning author of Sophie’s Choice and half a dozen other notable works, also wrote Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, describing his unexpected descent into an episode of near-suicidal depression at the age of 60, which landed him in the psychiatric ward for seven weeks. He eventually recovered. In the memoir he wrote:
“In virtually any other serious sickness, a patient who felt similar devastation would be lying flat in bed, possibly sedated and hooked up to the tubes and wires of life-support systems, but at the very least in a posture of repose and in an isolated setting. His invalidism would be necessary, unquestioned and honorably attained. However, the sufferer from depression has no such option and therefore finds himself, like a walking casualty of war, thrust into the most intolerable social and family situations. There he must, despite the anguish devouring his brain, present a face approximating the one that is associated with ordinary events and companionship. He must try to utter small talk, and be responsive to questions, and knowingly nod and frown, and, God help him, even smile. But it is a fierce trial attempting to speak a few simple words.”
Yes, I thought. I completely understand.
If you’ve read my book, The 99th Monkey, then you know that I have a long history of battling debilitating episodes of depression, and playing around with various psychopharmacological agents—mostly legal ones!–in my efforts to maintain a happy (or at least a happi-er) face. Even in the best of moods I’ve never been one to enjoy the strain of obligatory chit-chat, and prefer to spend most of my time either alone or with companions with whom I can easily share silence unless there’s something worth saying.
Which brings me to this “Mostly Silent” blog; I have been true to that title, more so lately, because I’m afraid I recently had a brain chemistry meltdown and “went under” for several hellish weeks. I had recently tapered off both Wellbutrin and Paxil, believing I could handle life on its own terms again, and during the weaning process, under my psychiatrist’s supervision, I had introduced the sporadic, “as-needed” use of Adderall, an amphetamine salt—a form of speed that is popular on the college campus these days as a “neuroenhancer” for all-night study sessions.
Adderall turned out to be a bad choice for me; unlike the overall stabilizing effect of antidepressants, it is an “upper,” and in my case, what follows an upper is a downer, creating the need to either do more Adderall to get back up, or suffer through withdrawal, which took several days of intense mental anguish before I was relatively back on track. In the midst of my struggle, I took a workshop in California entitled “Libido,” which stirred up some very painful and personal issues, and followed that immediately with an extended visit to the increasingly difficult scene at my parents’ home, where my Dad is under the enormous burden, drain and strain of caring for my Mom, who’s Alzheimer’s disease brings more heartbreak, deterioration and mood explosions daily.
Mom
And my role in the family is to cheer everyone up! Like William Styron, that’s hard enough for me to do on the best of days, let alone when the inner storm clouds are fogging over my cortex and attacking me from the inside out.
I may also be suffering from PPPS: Post-Partum-Publishing Syndrome: I’ve had several books published, mostly very well-received and praised by readers, but none have sold in significant numbers, and though I myself have written warnings to would-be authors, saying, “Don’t expect your book to change your life!” it is nevertheless always a bit sobering, humbling and disappointing after the initial rush of publication and reviews and book tours dies down and I find that I’m still here, with not so much as a wink or a nod from either Oprah or the New York Times Book Review. It makes it a bit harder, as a writer, to “get it up” again.
But if one’s motivation to write is not simply fueled by an adolescent and empty drive for fame and fortune, the only possible reason to write at all would be “writing as gift,” as a form of offering oneself in a way that hopefully will be useful to someone else, such that one’s life doesn’t feel like a scribbling diversion and waste of time. And that’s why I have been mostly silent, waiting for something worthwhile or useful to say.
Isadora
However, as Isadora Duncan declared in her autobiography, “If anyone wrote the truth of their lives, they will have written a masterpiece.” Therefore, theoretically, the simple and honest relating of my truth–and yours– is probably sufficient and “worth sharing,” but it takes a certain degree of courage to do that, and sometimes I feel more courageous than others.
A closing quote, another from Styron’s memoir:
“My brain…had become less an organ of thought than an instrument registering, minute by minute, varying degrees of its own suffering.”
Yes, I understand.
Me, Halloween ‘07
I greatly appreciate that YOU wrote your true feelings in this post.
Depression/bipolar disorder, etc., are all chemical imbalances and hence true physical diseases as much as any physical sickness, like Styron said.
I have this book and have read it. It’s a book I’d recommend to not only sufferers of a mental illness or disorder, but also to the family and friends of those who suffer, who do not always understand and can sometimes claim the sufferer doesn’t really have anything wrong with them and can easily “snap out of it”, or are just plain lazy.
Our world is becoming more knowledgeable and understanding as time goes on, but still there is a great intolerance and misunderstanding where mental illness is concerned. Books like this – and blog posts like this of yours – help to spread awareness of and education about these diseases.
So you see, you DO have something useful to say, and thank you for saying it.
Thank you El, I too can relate to what you say.
This February to late April held some spaces for me I would much prefer not to have entered. I was greatly helped and relieved by a fellow traveller who advised me to surrender to the waves of anxiety and depression, to let them be. Easier said than done, I know. But at least I understood that one of my worst enemies in these times is the inner voice that says ” I’m always gonna be like this, I’ve done it to myself, I’m a real failure, there’s something really wrong with me and there’s nothing I can do to make it better”. To understand that anxiety and depression can arise naturally in our “mad, mad world” I find is a help. Once I had understood this piece, hey presto, the nightmare was over.
The stigma attached to mental and emotional diffculties, in our society and, if I am honest, in my own mind, stands in the way of real healing.
So thank you so much for all that you do to present an honest account of the reality for you. In this way you are a hero, and though you may not feel it, your presence and being offer hope to so many of us.
God, I hope Oprah wakes up and sees how great you would be on her show!
Love
Jean
Oh Eliezer, this post made me cry. I feel for you. I have missed you so and I am sorry for the reason for your silence, I have a brother who suffers from depression and I did when I was a teeager, but that was probably just my age
. About your books, take heart, I was talking to a friend about you the other day and he asked if you wrote that book the 99th Monkey? It is getting around and I think someone should send a memo to Oprah. Much love and many hugs, Annie
Elizer, Thank you for your unabashed honesty and willingness to share your authentic experiences here. Are you feeling better? You have a lot of love out here in the world being directed your way, so try to soak up a little of it and be gentle with yourself. Even when you don’t know or feel it.. You’re a gift to us all!
Lauren