David's Inferno

by David Blistein

  And, just when you think you’ve found a treatment that works, winter comes … there’s less sun … so you start producing less vitamin D which somehow affects your serotonin levels. So maybe you take a vitamin D supplement and feel a little better. And then you have a massage and feel a lot better. And then you wake up with your mind racing down roads that are best left untaken, so you roll over and take a .5 mg tablet of Klonopin and doze off for an hour, but when you wake up an hour later you’re still agitated, so you do an intense workout to calm down. Which leads, after breakfast, to a surprisingly pleasant early-morning nap, only to wake up wired again, so you take a little calcium-magnesium and call your psychiatrist who suggests that instead of taking 60 mg of Cymbalta every day, you do 60 mg one day and 30 mg the next.

  And then, just when you think you’ve got things in balance again, you get fired or divorced or start to have unrelated angina, or break a leg so you can’t work out, which confuses your neurotransmitter systems in a whole different way.

  That fictional scenario might make you question the possibility of ever stringing together more than a few blessed moments of sanity. But, lest I scare anybody who is currently on a similar roller coaster, I’ve been good—really good—for years with only a very few very brief relapses.

  There are countless treatments for this disease, many of which I have had the pleasure of experiencing. I’m as tempted as the next “expert” to offer an opinion on what someone is doing or taking. But, I know that what helped me could have an equal and opposite effect for someone else … or even for me the next time.

  Fixed opinions are luxuries that I, and I daresay most depressives, can ill afford. We may ask you what you know about depression and meds. We may want to hear about your experiences or those of your friends. We may ask for your suggestions. But ultimately, what we really need is as much support as possible, regardless of our choices.

  Visible Means of Support

  It’s often just enough to be with someone. I don’t need to touch them. Not even talk. A feeling passes between you both. You’re not alone …

  —MARILYN MONROE

  EVERY MOMENT of intimacy is its own little miracle. Whether with casual strangers, long-term friends, or family. Whether it manifests as a random act of kindness, simple acceptance, gentle humor, light touch, heartfelt hug, or passionate romance, love has a kind of energy that accepts no substitutes. Even if there were no prescription drugs, no supplements, no acupuncture needles, no homeopathic remedies, and no meditation practices, the most powerful remedy of all is still swirling around. Unfortunately, when you’re that involuted, it usually feels just out of reach … even in the midst of orgasm, which releases more than enough serotonin, dopamine, acetylcholine, and norepinephrine to perk up most human brains.

  I recently heard a story about a doctor who uses sophisticated brain scans to diagnose and treat illness. Early in his career, a friend of his who had just fallen “madly” in love stopped by his clinic for a visit. Curious, the doctor did a scan and, when he read it, it looked exactly like the brain of someone on cocaine …

  From the epicenter of my personal psychotic universe, I was surrounded by many people who—knowingly or not—provided some form of support. I see them radiating out in Dantean spheres from an inner one that only Wendy could occupy to outer orbits of those who saw me so infrequently that I figured they never suspected there was anything wrong. Wrong.

  Masking the symptoms of mental instability—or making them seem like not such a big deal—is the depressive’s version of an Olympic event. It takes an extraordinary amount of energy to manufacture manifestations that will seem relatively normal to the people around you. I figured I usually earned at least a bronze medal. But it appears even in that I may have been deluded. A few years later after “outing” myself in a local paper, I received a letter—a real, handwritten letter—from someone I’ve known for almost thirty years but, except for the occasional party or chance meeting downtown, rarely saw. She wrote:

  In our small community we are all intertwined and tangled and not much goes unnoticed. I would be fibbing if I said I didn’t suspect at times that you were not feeling well. Sharing your writing is a beautiful way to break the silence and get folks talking, engaged and moving toward, if nothing else, supporting one another.

  She’s right. We are all connected. But … but … but … what do you say when you see someone who’s clearly fallen into an emotional sinkhole? You want to help, but how? Everything you say seems to disappear into a bottomless pit. Trying to cheer him up seems somehow insensitive. Too much empathy can make you pretty damn sad yourself … which can, in turn, make him feel even worse. After all, if you feel someone’s pain, that’s twice as much pain, right?

  You wait for an opening—maybe a few good hours here or there—so you can do something together that resembles fun as you formerly knew it. But you still feel like you’re walking on eggshells—one innocuous comment and he’ll start talking in monosyllables again … if he talks at all.

  Depending on how well you know him, you can ignore his behavior (or lack thereof), shrug it off, share ironic jokes about it, or get really worried and upset. Regardless, you know the deal. He knows the deal. And there ain’t a helluva lot either of you can do.

  Maybe he’ll still work out with you. Show some faint interest in business. Plan a road trip that you both know he won’t take. (Or, worse, will.) Maybe go for a walk. Watch a game. If you’re lucky, he might even go out for a drink. Or briefly engage in relatively normal conversation, before looking skittishly around and saying he has to go somewhere. Anywhere.

  Every time you see him, you take a quick look … to see if maybe Dave is Dave again. Once in a while you see hopeful signs: he actually laughs wholeheartedly; his wit doesn’t seem slashed in half. But it doesn’t last. The center does not hold. You should know, however, that even if we look down, turn away, change the subject, and/or try to act like this moment does not exist, we appreciate how hard it is for you. We don’t enjoy casting a shadow over your life. Far better that you keep enjoying your own good humor, rather than letting us drag you down. Just being able to let down our guard is helpful.

  As I began to recover, the first thing I wanted to do was reach out … call people … interact. So be patient. If you can. We’ve gone on a long voyage. But we’ll be back.

  Probably the best thing you can do is acknowledge/accept deeply depressed people as the not-exactly-happy-go-lucky people we/they are; and remain as happy and loving as you possibly can. I better stop before I appear too New Age, but, if we don’t look too ornery, you can even give us a hug.

  It’s really hard to see inside the world of a friend who’s going through a breakdown.

  After a visit in the winter of 2006, I asked a friend to write what it was like:

  I thought the winter setting reflected your personal space—blanketed, not quite smothered but clearly weighted down by a heavy force and yet still showing evidence of life inside/below—accessible but muted. The analogy that comes to mind is one of an astronaut on a space mission. It is a mission that the astronaut has in some way signed on for. From space the earth and all its precious beauty is visible but not tangible. There is a clear understanding that this is a mission and it will end, but the astronaut does not believe himself to be the director of this mission. He knows he will return, he knows he will embrace the earth again, but he does not know when. And this not knowing is the most difficult part and it creates a void that has its own enchantment for an active mind.

  It’s even harder to know what to say. But people found ways. Often I’d get little notes from friends … just letting me know they were there … and so was I.

  Just wanted to say hi, and rather than bug you by calling you each day, I’ll check in via email and send my love this way.

  In the department of clichés department vis a vis you and your states in re my availability: 24/7. ‘Nuff said.

  [From a friend who drove by and saw me on
a street corner]: So amazing … through the rain I see … that’s david … from the distance of the road you seemed somehow one step removed from this world … here yes … but … stay here, david … there are more adventures!!!!

  No more breakdowns for either of us—or energy that wraps around one’s heart and fucks you up. I find a lot of it comes down to loving myself. Hope your wailing and moaning is swept away with the rain.

  David, it’s time to release now. And it won’t be enormous. It will be like the bee flying away and leaving its stinger behind.

  By the way, being depressed does not necessarily mean you’ve lost your sense of humor. One day, I got an email from one of the funniest people on the planet who’s known Wendy as long as me, and loves her almost as much. He wrote:

  And as for nervous breakdowns … dude, you’ve been living with her for umpteen years. There’s no mystery here. You’re in line for the frickin’ Distinguished Service Cross. If I was you I would have downed a quart of Liquid Plumber years ago and been done with it.

  I was reluctant to talk about it. The very question: “How are you doing today?” made me claustrophobic. One of my best friends, however, did perfect the art of just glancing briefly and/or putting his hand lightly on my shoulder and asking, “How ya doing, buddy?” in a way that made it clear no answer was required, while acknowledging that if there happened to be anything he could do, he was more than willing.

  I was also horrified by the notion that people would pray for me. I mean, I appreciated the thought, but it felt like an invasion of privacy. I didn’t want the attention. That’s just me. Prayer is probably really helpful. In fact, I’m happy to pray for anybody anytime. Just ask.

  But the hardest question to bear was: “Have you tried …?” No matter how well-meaning, I’d experience the question as another person’s opinion/expectation I’d have to add to the invisible Sisyphean load of indecision I was dealing with.

  If you really, really believe something will help, consider taking the matter in your own hands: For example,

  • Show up at his house with your bike and tell him you’re going for a long ride together. Note: Be prepared to fix the flat tire he’s been staring at for two days because he’s so sure he’ll do it wrong and doesn’t want to take it to the bike shop because he’s embarrassed he can’t do it himself.

  • Show up with two tickets to a Rolling Stones concert. (Trust me … he’ll go no matter what state he’s in.)

  • Say in no uncertain terms: “I’m making an appointment for you to have (a complete checkup, Craniosacral treatment, frontal lobotomy, etc.) and I’m driving you there.”

  I did try to reach out sometimes … often in emails. To read them today gives new meaning to the phrase “mixed states.” One minute I’d be writing an email about how I was definitely getting better, even though less than a half hour before, I’d had a blanket over my head and having the dry heaves, and sobbing. Later that day, I’d be writing another one that described the experience in excruciatingly objective detail.

  Why did I write so differently to different people? To control the message, of course, Because, ironically, the more out of control you feel, the more urgency you feel to control how people relate to you. While it was helpful to have a good excuse for missing a meeting, dinner, party, or other seemingly intimidating social situation, I didn’t want it to be so good I’d never be invited to another one. I did have a few “special correspondents.” People I knew would read my words with a certain kind of understanding that—through some strange alchemy of communication—would make me feel better just by writing.

  Realizing it wasn’t a great idea for me to be home alone every day that Wendy was working, I made arrangements with an artist we know to work in her studio on Wednesdays.

  Our friend is so guileless you wish there was a better word for it. Finding an iota of deception or manipulativeness in her is harder than catching a glimpse of the famously rare Vermont catamount.

  Being at her studio finessed two big issues for me of being around people: space versus confinement and wanting to be alone versus needing to be around people.

  It was a big studio … maybe 30 feet × 30 feet. A little kitchenette to make tea. A fire escape to walk out on. She spent almost all of her time painting flowers or a model, while I pushed around parts of a novel. Every once in a while, she’d come over and sit down to share the table and tea and talk with me. While she was well aware of my condition—and had gone through something similar 20 years before—she wouldn’t have considered wanting it to be otherwise. Rather, I could feel her looking at it, engaged, curious, from different perspectives, as she would the things she painted. No shadows, no light. No light, no shadows.

  I tried to “pay my way” by consulting with her on business, in particular her approach to time management. She really wanted to understand time. It was a concept that baffled her. For example, if she needed to have 10 paintings ready for a show in 20 weeks, I would try to explain that meant she had to do about two paintings each week. She was fascinated by the idea—she’d even laugh and tell me how great I was at “figuring stuff like that out.” She just didn’t really grasp what it had to do with her—which she demonstrated every time another of her self-imposed deadlines faded into history.

  I felt safe there. I felt I had more to offer than just my pain. Occasionally, I think I was even pretty good company. My depression was still the elephant in the studio. But its feelings about the moment were no more important than those of the other wild things running around in my head, let alone the flowers she was painting.

  Another long-term friend, after realizing just how bad I was, started coming over every Tuesday evening. He kept his own bottle of cognac at our house for the occasion, and on arriving, would pour himself a healthy shot. Emboldened, I might counter with a thimble of Jameson’s. Then he’d ask me questions about what it was like. A lot of questions. Having spent years exploring drug- and alcohol-induced mental anguish—in himself and others—he was genuinely interested. He had no agenda. In fact, he admitted he kind of liked me better this way. Being able to talk about it freely in an almost clinical way helped give me a little separation from it. I looked forward to his visits. Then there was my partner in business and crime (once or twice literally)—whose family is as close as you could be to ours without the DNA. My experience was particularly hard for him because we worked together several days a week and talked almost every day. My behavior unsettled the very rhythm of his life. We had spent many years honing our own personal, ever-evolving, often-scathing comedy routine in which no fools, including ourselves, were ever suffered. It had always been the way we “processed” the bewildering behavior of other humans. Now it was the way we managed to find ways to incorporate even my most abject states into our lovingly biting verbal slingshots.

  But, deeply concerned and acutely aware of fluctuations in my tone of voice, he had to find ways to help me maintain a veneer of functionality, especially in front of colleagues and customers—without forgetting I was holding on by a thread. Efforts for which I remain grateful to this day. Once, cowering in the back of his car—he and his wife up front—acutely aware that they were suffering my despair almost as much as I was, I said, “Well, let’s not institutionalize my psychosis.” The irony of which didn’t escape any of us.

  What about mom? Kids going through an emotional trauma should be able to count on their parents for support. By the time you’re 85, however, you don’t expect having to worry about a 55-year-old son with the stability of an 8-year-old. Especially when, for many years, you’ve relied on him for the occasional emotional lift.

  My mother accomplished a lot in her life. She worked for many years as a social worker in the days when most women still stayed home with the kids. She was one of the first female trustees of an Ivy League University. Plus, she put up with my father for 47 years … an act of courage that was admired by him and all who knew (and loved) him.

  Until very shortly before she
died, she was independent and active. Every month or two, however, she’d call and say, “I need a David fix.” She’d been doing it ever since my dad died in the early 1990s. Translation: I feel a little down and I need you to cheer me up.

  The phrase always made me cringe. Now, it made me want to run for cover. Still, I couldn’t blame her: it wasn’t that long a drive, she only wanted me to stay for a night, maybe two, and she took me out to some of the best restaurants in town. Plus, she liked to stay in bed late, reading the paper, drinking her coffee, not coming out for a late breakfast until 9 or 10. By then, I’d usually walked off at least the top layer of frenzy and could sit more or less still and have a more or less sane conversation. Bike ride, nap, good dinner, some TV … By 10 P.M., I’d successfully negotiated another day of madness. It was kind of like reverse “respite care” for Wendy who could have a few days of real peace, without worrying about me being off in some cold-water motel in Kentucky, pounding my fists into the cushion.

  Maybe for some people, depression is linked to stuff they have to work out with their parents. I can’t speak for them. Mine didn’t have that kind of psychological underpinning.

  That may be hard to believe in this confessional age, but my mother inadvertently proved it: Toward the end of her life, as she reached the stage where she was functional enough to drink a little wine at dinner but not to go to the bathroom by herself, friends back home started encouraging me to see if there was anything my mom wanted to say before she died. Leftover psychological stuff. It felt artificial to me. But one day she confessed, “I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round and don’t know how to get off.” Figuring I might as well take advantage of the opportunity, I carefully asked if there was anything she wanted to say while she could still say it. Her response? “Oh David, don’t be morbid …” (To get the full flavor, you had to hear it with the full Providence accent: “Don’t be maw-bid.”)