.authored by something.of.substance.
“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
-Kahlil Gibran
Depression must be more common than cancer these days.
There is a field of thought that considers depression to be the result of not living your most authentic life.Then, of course, there is the discussion of depression as a biochemical imbalance in the brain. Having only briefly studied Neuroscience in my undergraduate career, I don’t feel that I am qualified enough to give more than a simple opinion on the matter. Because I cannot discount the chemical depression that arises from post-partum hormonal shifts, after detoxification of long-term drug use, or as a cyclical variant of bipolar disorder, I believe that some depressions are organic. Other depressions however, I believe are manufactured by several societal factors including, but not limited to, the technological distance between all of us, the further removal of us from our sustenance and the very speed with which we bounce from one “thing” to the next with no commitment or dedication.
Suffice it to say, whether chemical or societal, those who claim depression experience something very debilitating and very real. When you are in your deepest hole of despair, all you can think of is getting out- at any cost. This is where death comes in; it is the great unknown. It is the one thing you often haven’t tried as a curative. But, when you are trapped in this spiraling mindset, the death you envision will catapult you from either the numbness or pain is narcissistic; even though you know pain isn’t a singularly felt emotion or response, you believe it to be true to you alone.
The following story and rumination took place while I was “on-duty” as a Resident Advisor one evening. For privacy reasons, all identifying information (including names) have been changed.
Tonight I was asleep when a phone call woke me. I went back to sleep thinking that all was right with the world and was awakened, again, by banshee-type shrieking outside my window.
Knowing that Thirsty Thursday was in full swing, I went outside to see one of my residents peeing on the siding of my apartment. After referring him to his bathroom, I took two more free-floating Natural Light beers off of outdoor-wandering residents and settled in to chat with another RA between rounds and watch the rain fall. Despite the intensity of the storm, the noise of constant revelry prevailed and we had to “close” a particulary boisterous apartment.
No sooner had I returned from the following “round” when one of the two boys living in the “closed” apartment came to get me out of concern for his roommate. As he was hastily , the crying young man appeared outside. Sobbing. Snot running down his face. Tears staining his shirt more thoroughly than the storm. Raw grief streaming from his countenance.
Earlier that week his younger female cousin had committed suicide. His mother had just called to remind him that he didn’t have anything to be celebrating that Thursday night.
He said that all his mother had talked of was his cousin. How his uncle (the girl’s father) had not moved from his chair in five days. How family had flown in from all over the world to be at the funeral. How his other uncle had drowned less than a year ago. How he felt his family was falling apart. How they were destroyed and would never be the same.
He saw his place in this as the stoic one: he had cried at the funeral and offered his condolences. Then, he had locked away his emotion for, what he said, was to be a year. He didn’t plan to deal with either her death or the associated fallout until he could approach it from a safe distance; one where he could control his reaction and the reactions of those around him. In essence, he felt that if he were to feel it, on any level, and open himself up to it, it would destroy whatever vitality he had left.
But, as he stood there issuing forth racking sobs and choking anger at what she had done, his grief transformed him. He became, not the sometimes angry, oftentimes placidly calm detached individual for whom I was responsible in all affairs academic and illegal, but a confused, overwhelmed, fully-capable human. A boy. And, as he stood sobbing with intermittent gushes of verbal exclamations and story, I held him.
I stood holding this sobbing man-child as he broke down. I let his tears course over me as he acknowledged his humanity. I felt him tremble as he gave in and finally opened his heart.
What flowed forth was awesome.
I crave intense experiences; in fact, this may be one reason why I used to be so drawn to people experiencing such states. They allowed me to wallow in my own ever-growing self-pity without having to actually address the strength of the concerns that pressed me there. They gave me a way to “feel” without ever having to risk a true flaying of my emotional soul.
As I stood and watched this 18 year-old child’s face so transfixed and contorted by grief, I finally understood that, for all the pain I felt, I, only once in my life, understood genuine grief. And, that the one legitimate experience of grieving that I had undertaken only happened when I acknowledged the reason for my grief. As Kahlil Gibran said: It was because I recognized that what had been my joy was the root of my sorrow.
This girl had been someone’s joy. The pain she felt, while powerful and, inevitably, life-consuming, had more to do with an absence of connection and attachment than with the removal of joy. I can understand how these things are not always mutually exclusive, but they often are.
I had never once considered how the removal of my presence in my state of numbness and detachment could profoundly affect someone whose joy was obtained, partly, through my existence. In short, I never realized the importance of opening your heart. Of feeling. Of caring. Of crying. Of loving.
It is far more dangerous to remain detached than to be hurt. To avoid rather than connect. To hide instead of confront. But, after seeing this preternaturally-aged teenager finally shed the carefully constructed facade of heartless barricades and mental road blocks, I understood that life was meant to be felt- whole-heartedly. The joy, the pain, the anger, the love. And, as long as they all stemmed from a place of true understanding deep within ourselves, they should not be denied or refuted.
For, we are all strong enough to handle a torrent of whatever emotion or circumstance may be thrust upon us. However, if we choose to think that by detaching from our emotions- shutting ourselves off from experience and existence and feeling- that we are coping, we are so horribly wrong.
Rather than coping with our feelings by ignoring them (good or bad), we are only fooling ourselves into believing that we have constructed the perfect reality. For there to be joy, there must be pain- otherwise, how would you understand the sweet depth of joy? Without love, there would be no sadness. Yet, both are vital to the thriving of our souls. You cannot find one without the other.
But, because you cannot control what is real, and what is raw (as I experienced tonight vicariously radiating from the authenticity of my resident’s heart), you have to understand that that which cannot be controlled does not necessarily need to control you.
That to feel is to be human.
To feel is a gift both given and earned.
To feel is to engage with life. To owe it to yourself to seek happiness even though you might find hurt.
To love freely.
Live abundantly.
And, finally, to construct the most intense and interconnectedly authentic reality possible for oneself.
interesting to see this, thanks