Depression, Etc. (#14): College, Sad Duck, and Good Luck

WHO STOLE MY SAD?

So who is that stuffed animal up there? That's my Sad Duck. Sad Duck really is his name. I think I came up with that name. Would that be an accident. I don't know. Kind of funny, though. My mom (I call her Mama) put the baby booties on him because his feet were falling apart. When I hold him he makes me feel better. I've had him since I was pretty small and I've taken him everywhere with me. This leads me to the continuation of my depression story during college. To give you an idea of the time, it was around Spring of 1991. The last time I was discussing this, I think I told you that my mom had discovered the cuts on my arm and was devastated. Immediately, she took me home, and then I really can't remember what happened right after that. It's a lot of blur. But I do remember that, through my mom and some very wonderful people at Rollins College, I was signed up for a medical leave. I guess that none of us knew how long this would last, but I knew it was a huge relief to be away from school, from a college campus full of people, because I desperately needed this break. My heart was broken in so many different ways and shapes that I thought I was broken too. I think I had about a semester off, and professors allowed me to do my work, at my pace, at home. One person, Susan Anderson (I hope she doesn't mind me naming her here), was absolutely instrumental in getting everything arranged for me with classes and administrative paperwork. And she looked at my depression as a big deal. She really listened and acted, which is sometimes more than you can ask for when you're falling apart.

While I was off I began trying out different medications. I don't remember the names of one or two of them. But I do remember that one made me so sleepy I could barely get out of bed. The other made me have paranoid thoughts. Finally, we settled on Pamelor, which seemed to work pretty well. The thing that struck me about the medication, once I got settled in, is that I thought a black cloud had lifted off of me. It didn't solve my problems but, in the short run, it made me feel a LOT better. And I started therapy. I had group therapy once a week and that was quite an experience. Here I am, a college kid and it's the first time I've handled anything like this. My mom drove me to group therapy every week and I would go in, scared at first, and then finally could settle into the general chit-chat, the sad stories, the tragic stories, and the funny stories. I think the group had about ten people. And I remember that the people in this group were so supportive of me. I may have had some one-on-one therapy, but I don't remember. During the time that I was away at school I was probably more actively creative and interested in art than I had ever been. I watched strange movies, I drew, I wrote, I did what I called sculpture (or playing with clay). I scared my mom one morning because I had stayed up all night and sculpted a pretty realistic-looking hand. My mom walk past it and had the crap scared out of her. My friends were wonderful and I was blown away by the support shown to me. After about a sememster off it was time to go back to school. The hard part, before going back to school, was that I was still fighting my depression and still cutting myself. Since I would go home many weekends, I would hide my cutting needles and pins. One time I had one hidden in a compact. My mom found it and broke it in half in front of me. It was painful. It was so very painful.

I was really, really scared to go back. But I began slowly, knowing that I understood something about myself more deeply than I did before. I had a name, Major Depression, that I could turn to to understand what was going on. I was on pretty solid medication, and I started my therapy
up again with a wonderful school counselor. I think I was with him all through my time at college. Boy, if all college kids could have a good therapy partner during their time at school, it would really help. This therapist tried to help me with ways that I could function with my depression instead of against it. He counselor encouraged me to continue my art and writing. Before my slide down, I was co-editor for a school art and literary magazine called Brushing. I was sad to have left it, but my co-editors kept me involved from afar. Bless them. Unfortunately, I found out some years later that my co-editor from Brushing died. That broke my heart because he was such a kind person. And a little devilish. I remember him freaking me out one night when I got a call in my dorm. There was somebody on the other end of the phone speaking in the voice of Gilda Radner's Rosanna Rosanna Dana. It took a few seconds but then he revealed who he was. Another of my friends from that time has remained dear to me. I'm lucky to have located him again. If you're reading this, Dave, I thank you so much.

My therapist worked on so much with me, even helping me out when I felt too WEIRD to really relate to people. I've had people call me weird in both serious and friendly ways and I admit that I'm weird. My therapist's response my being considered weird was "so?" I love that. His feeling was that WEIRD was something to be proud of, an asset. After all most of the people I admire could be considered pretty darn weird.

During my last year at Rollins I discovered something else, which will remain a part of my life forever -- the healing power of animals (not in a Doug Henning way, but in a palpable and spiritual way). I did a final paper at school about the symbolism of animals in art, poetry, and short stories. That's a pretty tall order, and I probably should have narrowed it down, but the exploration I did during the writing of this paper meant much to me. I had newts for much of my time at school and, even though they're no longer around, I adore those newts to this day for their newtness and for how much they meant to me. Remember the part in How the Grinch Stole Christmas where the Grinch's heart is getting bigger and bigger and bigger. That's how those newts, especially Barney, always make me feel.

RESOURCES OF NOTE

Work as a Spiritual Practice by Lewis Richmond. The subtitle of this book is "A Practical Buddhist Approach to Inner Growth and Satisfaction on the Job." Well, this really doesn't have to do with what I'm talking about in this post, but this is an excellent resource. When I was working I would take part of my lunch hour and read this book. It has such a sense of balance. And if you're trying to get through some tough emotions while you're also trying to work, this is a fantastic book. Chapters include "Worry," "The Energy Wheel," "Anger," and "Gratitude." Written in very accessible language it is truly a blessing for weary workers. If this Buddhist approach is not for you I know there are tons of books out there for different spiritual practices that discuss the same need for balance in real life. And a minister or other practitioner might be able to help with other approaches.

Listening to Depression: How Understanding Your Pain can Heal Your Life by Lara Honos-Webb, PhD. I haven't read the whole book but have read through parts of it. This is a really fascinating work. It shows how depression may be opening the door for greater understanding of your life. Is it a way to have an "inner revolution"? Does it speak in the language of "embacing emptiness"? How does your depression, or I would say any emotional struggle, speak to you?