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.
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.
2 comments:
Strangly, I've been feeling very similarly, about the maniacs anyway. And the hamster heart! (although I can't pin it on a reason)
I'm sorry about your dad.
Call if you want to! I've got good stories...b/c I've joined Bally's. I think I hear you laughing already.
--Em
"What if I'm being a realist, something that naive optimists choose to call depression?"
interesting question. can't really comment on that... ; )
still, I'm glad to hear that you're doing therapy and getting a benefit. I did it a while back to deal with all the father issues that I have (knowing my dad I'm sure you have an idea) and it was very good for me. doing that, getting some prayer and facing up to the need to forgive really brought some amazing healing into my life. I hope for you that therapy brings you to a better place, whatever that looks like.
I'd like to put a link to your blog on my blog, but I wanted to check with you first - in case you don't want it to go to a wider audience.
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