The Anniversary

Two graves must hide thine and my coarse,
If one might, death were no divorce...
John Donne, "The Anniversarie"

To celebrate the first anniversary of my dad's death, I did something that he would have strongly disapproved of: I began therapy. For the entire year, I'd been confronted again and again by how much I needed to do this, and I saw, in candid moments, that I was a textbook case for clinical depression. But--and this is a big part of the problem--I am my father's daughter, meaning that I am stubborn as hell about repressing emotion and rationalizing bad behavior. And I told myself these things: you are cynical about life, yes; a pessimist, absolutely. These are aspects of your personality that you need to embrace, not symptoms of a disease that needs to be eliminated.

But a few weeks ago, as the anniversary crept closer, I decided that if I couldn't call myself out on this shit, I needed to pay someone to do it for me. I wasn't sleeping well, but I didn't want to get out of bed. I resumed my obsession with death. I began to believe, again, that the world is controlled by raving maniacs, who are in turn controlled by a maniacal God. My heart raced frantically, hamster-like, in my chest. Personality? God, I hope not.

So, off I went to a really great therapist who plays the part exactly like I want him to. He pays close attention to semantics, asking challenging questions about my word choices as I try to explain the past. And, we've even talked theory: he's a cognitive psychologist, and he's explained exactly what that means and how he wants that approach to play out for me. Which is great, because it allows me to believe that the whole therapy process is at least somewhat within my own control.

Strangely, even though I avoided this for so long, I'm starting to like it. Maybe this is because I'm an egomaniac and love discussing myself for a hour; maybe it's because I'm actually making sense of some aspects of my past. But one thing continues to nag me: what ARE the boundaries between my depression and my personality? And, furthermore, what if the world actually IS run by maniacs? Wouldn't it be better for me to accept this? What if I'm being a realist, something that naive optimists choose to call depression?

Mike tells me this is my depression talking.

Eating alone

A woman eating alone in a "sit-down" restaurant is an unusual thing, even in the twenty-first century. I realized this a few years ago, when I would occasionally eat out alone. Most of the time, I would come prepared to look busy, brandishing a book or magazine like a weapon of sorts against the confused and/or pitying gaze of the waitress. But honestly, I don't like to read while I'm eating; I don't like to talk much, either. I just want to focus on the fleeting pleasure of hot, flavorful food, freshly delivered from the kitchen: the way it looks on the plate, the way it smells, and of course, the way it tastes. In fact, one of my favorite moments in everyday life is when a plate of food is placed in front of me. (If you've met the people who raised me, this should come as no surprise.) I don't need a partner to enjoy this moment, even if I am a woman.

Since I got married, I don't eat at restaurants alone all that often. Eating is one of the most fundamental activities of life, so if you're truly sharing your life with someone, it goes without saying that you'll eat with them most of the time. Last Saturday, however, I found myself alone, and knew exactly what I wanted to do: eat lunch at Lulu's Noodles and then spend the afternoon at the Carnegie Museum. So, I went to Lulu's, announced to the host that I was a party of one, and was given the worst table in the entire place, which I'm sure they were saving for a solitary party such as mine. I resisted the urge to get out a suitable person-dining-alone activity, and instead simply sat and (i'm pretty sure) blatantly stared at the people around me, eavesdropping on their innane conversations. It was great. Then, my green tea and pad thai arrived, and I savored the moment as long as I could.

Alone, and without the self-imposed distraction of a book, the moment was heightened: I dwelled upon the well-balanced flavors and textures, the heat on my tongue. I ate so slowly and deliberately that I couldn't finish the generous helping, as I usually can. My meal, along with the gray afternoon light on the table and the clamor of eating all around, formed a sort of still-life in my head, and as I walked through the art galleries later, I wished that I could bring myself to paint it. But I don't paint anymore, so I'll use Li-Young Lee's words to represent the subdued pleasure of eating alone I experienced that day:

White rice steaming, almost done. Sweet green peas
fried in onions. Shrimp braised in sesame
oil and garlic. And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want?