by Kim Korson
Toward the end of session 2, Dr. X presented me with a small token. If not feeling well brings you to the doctor a few times yearly or forces you to spend much time with the trusty search engine and medical websites of your choice, you hope to leave with a parting gift—a diagnosis. I’m not talking pancreatic cancer or type 2 diabetes, but would it kill someone to hand over a minor condition? Something that simply required a mushroom tincture or prescribed sleep? And could they be so kind as to label it, preferably with a fancy title, allowing you to opt out of social engagements at your leisure? Naturally one doesn’t want to hear they need a kidney transplant, just a cute disease to make all your mentions of feeling unwell not be in vain. Validation comes in all shapes and sizes, and wraps beautifully.
“I don’t know what’s happened in your life,” said Dr. X, with seven minutes left to go. “But being dysthymic might have clouded some things for you.”
Wait, wait, wait. Hold the phone. What did she say right there? Dys-something or other. I didn’t hear a word she said after that big one, nor did I even bother to ask what it meant. I had something! I actually had something. A bona fide, official disorder. The gift was just my size, with a catchy title but seemingly casual enough to handle with talk and not heavy medication or a room at Bellevue. I was positively giddy. When Dr. X mentioned my malady, I nodded, which was my way of letting Dr. X know that I knew about the affliction so we wouldn’t have to actually explore it. I certainly didn’t want to do anything about it, I just wanted to have it. Plus I hated opening presents in front of others. I ran home to research.
How many hours had I spent at a computer, foraging for ailments and answers and relief? I’d finally moved up a station in life. No longer was I just a type-in-a-symptom sort, I had something real to look up. I hit those computer keys with relish, eager to see what my search would yield. There were many results, so that was good. Greek roots. A few descriptions. But the hope that had puffed me up not three minutes earlier dissipated. They tried to make the disorder seem fancy by translating it from the Greek, but it all just amounted to four words.
1. ill and bad
2. mind and emotion
Turned out that dysthymia (dys-thigh-me-ugh) was just low-level depression. I know, I know, I begged for something lightweight to call my own, but this didn’t even seem like a real ailment. It was the gluten intolerance of mental disorders. I started making throaty noises at my desk. Buzz wandered over to see what the hubbub was all about.
“It just means ‘mild depression,’ “ I said, hangdog.
“Isn’t that a good thing?” he said.
“No, it’s not a good thing.” I wanted to throw my keyboard at him. “It’s not even a real thing. It’s just crummy old chronic mild depression. Big deal.”
“Well,” Buzz said. “It’s chronic. Isn’t that something?”
“No, it’s not something. It’s nothing! It’s lame. Uch, even my depression is lame.”
Buzz shook his head, wandering out of the room. “You’re insane.”
“Clearly I am not insane!” I said, following him into the kitchen. “If anything, I’m just low-level insane! Mild insane!”
“Look, you wanted a diagnosis and you got one. There’s just no winning with you.”
“Yes, there is,” I said. “There is too winning.”
“When? When is there winning?”
“Oh, there is winning,” I said. “There is a lot of winning. Anyway, why are you so obsessed with winning? Do we all have to be winners? Winning is so stupid.”
Buzz was agitated as he rummaged through the pantry. He shook a bag of chocolate granola in my face. “There is just no joy with you. You got exactly what you wanted and you’re still unhappy. When are you not unhappy? Can’t you just go lie in a field somewhere and call up your goddamn happy place?”
“I don’t have a happy place!”
Buzz slowly put the granola on the counter. He gave me the once-over, taking in my flailing arms and tear-stained sweatpants. And then he laughed. Buzz laughed, alone, for a good seven minutes.
“What a catch,” he said, kissing my head. “What. A. Catch.”
• • •
Mild depression. Mild. What did that even mean? Temperate? Gentle? Bland? If we’re being honest, I found the diagnosis kind of insulting. Mild. Did people get mild leukemia? Did my depression not have a good personality? Did it lack sizzle? Why was I being penalized for being able to get out of bed in the morning and not feeling sad and hopeless and lonely enough? My depression didn’t seem to be trying hard, it wasn’t living up to its potential—my depression was me in high school. Maybe I should have considered killing myself more often. Why couldn’t I suffer from blinding depression instead of mild unrest? I imagined that in the olden days, at the very least they’d send people like me to the country, to lie down. Nowadays they leave you to your own devices, roaming free, and call you lame names. What about the gold standard, depression depression, the one where you wear your what’s-the-point sweatshirt for seven weeks and can’t even bring yourself to shower anymore? I wished I had that one instead.
I started cataloging all the other problems I’d had over the years, to see if they were equally bland. There was that spell after college where I felt uncomfortable leaving the house sometimes, but I still went out occasionally. I didn’t start peeing in Ragu jars or eating the furniture. Probably just mild agoraphobia. I was always very scared to fly, imagining my fiery demise at least three days before I was slated to get on that oversized cigar tube. And even though I cry during takeoff and keep my eyes glued to the stews to make sure they look casual, I still get on the plane. Mild fear of flying. What was wrong with me? Who knew my deficiencies were so meek?
Surely I had problems that were out of the ordinary. What about my hypochondria? Because I don’t feel well, you know. I never feel well. If I am not listless or feverish, then I am definitely coming down with cancer. That small red mark on my arm is probably mange. I know I once had SIDS. Remind me again what side the appendix is on? I spend countless hours on the computer researching the intricacies of lupus and taking “Are You Normal?” quizzes in magazines. My hypochondria spans both physical and psychological ailments. Not only am I dying but I am dying mental. I’ll see your mild hypochondria and raise you one hamster-wheel brain whose incessant squeak reminds me hourly that I have little time left alive.
What about my negative attitude? Surely that would get me some sort of non-mild badge. I’m incredibly negative. I don’t even think my brain has a side that accepts positive thinking. When receiving a compliment, I wonder what the person is really saying. If they tell me I am doing this well, aren’t they just finding a creative way to say I can’t do that? When I changed my daughter’s first diapers, I wept because she’d be heading off to college. When I signed my book deal, the very first thing that came to mind was how I couldn’t go on any sort of book tour because I’m a terrible packer. And really, I didn’t have that author reading voice, that one you hear on NPR or at those readings at the 92nd Street Y, that lilt and cadence of serious writers like Russell Banks, who write stuff about dead children and sound all smart and serious doing it. My head won’t even entertain processing good news. It can’t. It doesn’t know how. I wouldn’t call that mild. I’d actually call that super not mild.
I needed to consult someone about this pathetic diagnosis. Obviously I couldn’t talk to Buzz, because he’d launch into some sports jargon about winning and then force me to guess how many grapes were in a bag. Lord knows my dear friend Shirley would be of no help. She’d come over to my house with her perspective in her organized purse, flinging her positive outlook in my face. “Why not look at it another way?” she’d say. “Why not think of it as good-natured depression, or warm, or soft depression?” Uch. She’d come to my own living room and say this stuff. I wanted Shirley to go home.
I wondered if Dr. X had even heard a
word I’d said in that chair. How my body literally rejects happiness, kicks it to the curb. Or how I felt the day I saw that ad on TLC for a new reality show starring these conjoined twins, Abby and Brittany. There they were, coiffed and painted, as cameras documented their every labored move. These sisters would graduate and try to find jobs and go off to Europe with the biggest shit-eating grins on their faces, all the while having two heads on one body. One of them had a third arm removed, one that was growing out of her back. They shared a bladder. And still they looked like they’d won the lottery. I had regular old limbs sprouting out of me, mild limbs, and couldn’t seem to find joy anywhere. Wasn’t that depressing?
We moved to Vermont shortly after my nondiagnosis. Here, nestled into a small, lovely community, complete with fresh air and biblical morning skies, I notice that, on occasion, while still my regular old self, for some very brief pockets of time, I am feeling okay. Mildly so. Buzz has even mentioned that I seem happy. I tilt my head in confusion.
“Well, as happy as you get,” he says. “Happy for you.”
And then, like at the end of “a very special episode,” I figure something out. (Can’t Kim figure something out?) Sure, most days, my brain is a cluttered studio apartment I’d like to move out of. But occasionally, occasionally, I am now able to take a break from despondency or dying to allow something to sneak in that presents itself as a good feeling. It might occur when I am taking my despondency out for a three-hour walk. It could surface when my six-year-old son requests that I stop making dinner so we can snuggle or when my nine-year-old daughter asks to borrow a scarf so she can look like me or when Buzz laughs at something dumb I’ve said. It’s fleeting. I’ve learned that about myself. But isn’t all happiness fleeting? Even regular people’s? Mine is just a little bit more fleeting, like a quick little tornado that sweeps into town, swirling out as fast as it came in. And, Dr. X, if you are reading this, I wouldn’t call a tornado mild.
The characters implicated in my world should win a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. I am exhausting and draining and something to be managed, like diabetes. Mind you, I am also a decent baker. Can’t Kim be happy? Meh. Not really. My dear friend Shirley believes that your glass is as full as you let yourself pour. She’s adorable that way. When it comes down to it, I really and truly do not have a happy place. But, on an off day, I might have a happy moment. It will leave me the second it gets here, but it gets here. Sometimes. And sometimes I can even see it. But don’t think I’ve learned some big lesson or anything, and understand that for the most part, even if happiness does pester its way in, I feel uncomfortable letting it.
We live in a new, everyone’s-a-winner era. They don’t keep score at my son’s T-ball game. When my daughter tries out for shows at our local youth theater, they all get the part. Everyone is celebrated all the time, even if they don’t do anything. And the world’s life wish for us is to be happy. Do we all have to be happy? What if one gets crampy walking in the meadow of bubbles and unicorns? What about the muddy field of unhappiness and constant discomfort? How come there aren’t ribbons or trophies for sadness or searing despondency? Don’t even get me started on if your despondency is lukewarm—or mild—and not even recognized by the pharmaceutical companies or the advertising world or the general public. We are not even considered an official group. Looks like everyone’s a winner these days, except the dysthymics. We don’t even rate. Which, I believe, makes us—makes me—a complete failure at depression. But at least I’m a failure. I couldn’t be happier.
Acknowledgments
• • • • • •
I often say the people in my life should win a lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Or, at the very least, a reward or token for dealing with me. Baked goods are nice. . . .
For Jen Bergstrom, a plate of macaroons—sophisticated and styley like you, cookies-about-town. Please enjoy these treats in France, without me, because I don’t like to travel. I hope they are life-changing, because that’s what your initial call about my weird blog was for me.
For Tricia Boczkowski: a pineapple upside-down cake just like Rhoda Morgenstern would bring over to Mary’s apartment when things weren’t going so well at the window dressing gig. We’ll polish off the cake while making fun of Phyllis, and you’ll sharpen my words and sentences as beautifully as you do. I bet we share head scarves.
For Kate Dresser: lemon squares, neatly cut on a white plate, with just a touch of powdered sugar. I’d tell you when they’d be arriving, and you’d be one minute early to receive them. I’ll email to make sure they got there; you’ll respond immediately. You’ll notice every single detail about said squares, and have the wherewithal and patience and sincerity and just enough OCD (the good kind) to discuss every last crumb. I will want to hug you.
For Meagan Brown and the rest of the folks at Gallery: I’m not sending one of those oversized tins of tri-flavored popcorn you get assaulted with at holiday time, but rather a giant assortment of cookies because, really, what says thank you for so much hard work better than cookies? I’ll even throw in some sandwich varieties. That’s how much I appreciate all you do.
Elana Stokes and Tanya Ferrell: For you, Wunderkinds, I will break out the candy thermometer (which I don’t actually own yet, but will purchase when you force me out of my house). To you super-cool ladies, I will hand-deliver (see? I told you I’d leave the house) a box of freshly made caramels. Goat’s milk caramels. Ones you can keep in gorgeous glass jars in your office or loose in your purses—little bursts of smooth, buttery energy you’ll need in order to deal with me. Consider the scattered plastic wrappers around your lives reminders of how grateful I am for you.
For Hannah Brown Gordon: I once promised you a loaf cake—lemon, I believe—which I’m happy to send along. They’re simple to make and slice, and they freeze well. But after thinking about it, I should probably send you a croquembouche: it’s unusual and complicated and it looks kinda high maintenance and no one’s really heard of it—it’s the me of desserts. I’d put in the hours building it, making sure it never toppled over, and pluck it from obscurity, just for you—because that’s what you’ve done so elegantly for me. And then some. But after rethinking my thinking, I realize I don’t want to send you a dessert that signifies me. We’ve had enough of me—I need something just for you. I’ll go back to my original loaf cake but make it in twenty-seven different varieties, with all kinds of icings and frostings and glazings, because I am awed at how many different hats you wear. And let me just say, you wear a hell of a hat. I’ll also package up some peanut butter cookies, ones I make for special friends who stick their necks out and take chances on me. Thank you, Hannah. You deserve all these desserts. And the lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni. Or maybe just my promise to lay low for a spell so you can eat all this stuff in peace.
To my shiny new Vermont community: You know who you are, mostly because I refer to you by your last name, probably shouting it in a field or across a parking lot. You are so nice to me and truly good friends. For you fantastic, welcoming, and supportive people, I will learn to bake pie. And I will personally hand-deliver each one to your respective homes so you don’t have to attend another potluck.
To authors I don’t actually know but who inspire me time and again—Tom Perrotta, Maria Semple, Judy Blume, David Sedaris, Jonathan Tropper, Meg Wolitzer, A.M. Homes (and so many more): I will just imagine sending you a crumb cake because I don’t know where you live. Plus, if I did show up there, well, that’s creepy.
To my parents and brother, I send those dumb oat bran muffins because it’s a family joke that will never die and maybe it will make you laugh, since I’m not sure much else in the book will. How about I throw in some Nana Ella brownies for good measure—for your love and support and, of course, all that material.
For the mighty Louise Rozett, who is such a supportive friend and generous reader, I will create some Death By Chocolate business (even if it is on my list of things I d
on’t care for).
For my fake-Cousin Lou, who is also a darn good reader, I will attempt to re-create the Lorna Doone because they’re weird and so is he. (He’s also really funny and talented and looks hilarious in a skeet-shooting vest.)
For Barry Waxman, or Bups, I will make some chocolate pudding with skin. But I will go beyond my baking duties and invent some sort of spray that instantly makes licorice and gummy bears stale. Yup, I’d do that for him. He’s done so much for me.
For Elsa Waxman, I would come to your house so we could bake together. Of course neither of us would be showered. You’d take out that old recipe tin and find the card with your grandmother’s mandel breit recipe and you’d teach me once and for all how to make it properly—just like you’ve taught me almost everything else in my life. We’d eat them at the counter, talking and laughing and each fighting over who did the worse job. And I’d feel like I was home.
I know, I know, Rebecca Waxman, you’re a savory. Your baked goods will be to the tune of some sort of weird cheese-and-chive scone inside a croissant thing with grits, but I’ll also be sure to whip up a batch oatmeal raisins (soft-baked) and stick a handful of Twix and a box of Mike and Ike’s and some potato product in my capacious bag—we’re going to need a lot of sustenance to discuss all that soup. But no matter what I’d bring, you’d find something lovely to say about it, because that’s just how you are. The Shirley to my Laverne. Punch in the arm, Dude. I love you, Man. I swear I’d be dead without you.