We had a text conversation the night before last in which Friend told me that he is overwhelmed with dread for no reason whatsoever. He enumerated the wonderful things in his life but said he doesn't shower on weekends and wishes he'd be caught in a big explosion, a clean quick death.
Since then, I've been thinking of what I can say to Friend. His depression stems from a deep, well-deserved belief that he doesn't deserve the good things he has. By "well-deserved," I mean he was trained from the day he was born to think himself a burden, a whipping post, the reason for family anger. This isn't something you can simply go to therapy or take some pills to make go away. And I knew, without him saying those things, that they are behind his current downward trajectory. And I respect that trajectory.
I closed that text conversation by saying "Talk to someone. And talk to me."
It wasn't a bad way to end the dialogue. It also wasn't the best.
I have my own version of depression. A lot. All the time. It has its own EKG. Among the things I've learned about talking about it is that there are two responses that are absolute bullshit: "You don't really feel that way" and "But X, Y and Z are so great in your life!"
So I didn't say that.
But I've been looking at the Fatima prayer that concludes each decade of the rosary and it brings him to mind: "...save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy." I don't believe in heaven but, of course, I certainly believe in hell because so much of my life feels like it. And his life certainly feels like it. I don't know why this prayer resonates for him but it's in a metaphorical way. "Save him from his hell, lead him to happierness, he has need of mercy and the certainty of solace." I think that's how it plays out for me.
If I were to say I am praying for him, he'd get it, appreciate it, but where he is -- in the clutches of childhood undeservingness and grief over a huge recent loss -- he would also laugh dryly. "Yeah, good luck to that, France."
I also know, from the many good things people say to me here and on Facebook and in conversation, that compliments are like tiny and ultimately ineffectual life jackets. I want them -- I need them -- but they don't, in the end, float me.
Which is not to say that occasionally one doesn't make it through, so please don't stop.
I know that depression, grief, dread are fought from within, that the only things that improve them are time, throwuppy, waiting for a new hope. Right now, I'm going through The Horrors: I learned last night that another dog will not be returning to my roster because the owner is dying. How will I live? Will this new gig come through? What if? Should I? Is Daisy limping? I can't.
The Horrors at least have concrete actions to take. Put up the damned dogs wanted posters. Talk to the pet store owners. Carry business cards. Look at and be grateful for your savings. Do. The. Next. Right. Thing. Do It Anyway.
But a severe depression? I admire the shit out of him for getting up and going to his prestigious job every day. I'll bet nobody knows what he's going through. There is a sheer rock face on the Going to the Sun Highway in Glacier Park called the Weeping Wall. Run-off gushes or dribbles down it all summer long. That's how functioning in a depression feels: as though the insides are weeping while you smile, have a department meeting, whatever.
My father would always slow the car w-a-y down so that we could hold our hands out to catch the water. It was one of my favorite things about the Park. Still is.
So how do I hold out my hand to catch his run-off which is internal? This morning I wrote that I was checking to say that some place in my heart is not empty because he is in my world.
One thing I need is to feel part of the fabric of life. After so much failure with dogs, one of my clients scribbled "Thanks for another good week" on my invoice for his elderly Brittany spaniel. I'd forgotten the $5 bill I needed to buy cigarettes and toilet paper the other morning and the guy at the counter said, "Don't worry about it. Never worry about it." He did that because I go there every day or so and I'm pleasant and funny and teasing and interested to hear that his small business is succeeding. There are a dozen of these small things that make me feel better because they make me feel known.
I can almost live without being appreciated. But known? That's amazing.
I want to jolly my friend along. I want to send him the funniest YouTube videos and flowers and --
But I think, when I go to my darkest patches, that what is best is not to bug him too much, to respect his reasons, which I have the responsibility/privilege of knowing, and to occasionally let him know he has made me a better person. I'm crying as I write this because I love him so much. He has given me that gift -- of great love, of pain at his pain.
We are both in need of mercy. Chances are, if you're reading this, you're in need of whatever form of mercy you believe in -- certain, absolute solace -- too. As a person who believes everyone but me deserves that solace, may you find it. And as a person who believes it is not her right, may I come to have faith that it is.
We change each other.