On Undercurrents, and assorted rushed fragments

sashawantsmore:

1

From Undercurrents: A Life Under the Surface, by Martha Manning.

Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door.

For nearly two years now, this quote has been kept in my moldering cell phone’s drafts folder. I brandish Manning’s words when only defiance can save me, or if I am in particular need of a ready, smug response, albeit borrowed. Here are the words. They are not mine. I wouldn’t say that, no, but this will have to do.

2

I found this book by accident. I recognized the spine without me knowing that it was of a book I’d wanted for a really long time.

3

It’s a strange thing, approaching literature dealing with depression when one has, for months now, felt confident that one does not currently have depression. Or, well, not as present a depression. I have dysthymia—I will always have this—and I have been wary of anything triggering the depression’s strengthened presence. Will reading this make me sad? is the question to every book that involves a character who is so much more than sad. I must not invite sadness. And when some sadnesses come unannounced, they must be scrutinized: a moment of extreme solitude in a roomful of friends and supposed joys—even boredom, the inability to hold a book until its end, those moments upon waking when you dread having to function. I give myself passes: You are allowed to skip work today; that commercial was so schmaltzy, of course you’d cry; there are too many people on this train, you’re allowed to feel unbearably weary; this book is so tedious, not even the prospect of lacerating it with snark proves exciting for you; you can go back to sleep, yes, you can.

4

A few months ago, I started The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon. I went into it the way some people would religion. This was going to be a bible. This was going to hold the answers. Or it would hold my hand. Or it would prepare me. I would simply know more. Do I do that with every book about depression that I encounter? Yes, I believe so.

5

This copy of Undercurrents has a child’s scribbles. The heavy press of pencil, the graphite grooves gleaming. Aimless: just lines flashing and pointing. I, of course, imagine that a mother must have read this. Her toddler must have disturbed this book from its place, trying to control a stub of pencil. Mother must have rescued the book, panicked at the defacement—or a sharp object so close to her child’s too-soft skin. Or maybe the child must have soon walked away, and the book drifted shut, to be found much later beneath the living room center table, when it was time to move out, and things no longer needed must be put in boxes and dropped into chainlinked stores.

6

In my third year of college, my Ethics professor’s assistant killed himself. The starchy Jesuit spoke of bravery, of courage: “Suicide isn’t cowardice. It takes supreme courage to stand up to life, to say that you rid of it. To take the choice away from Death.” The glasses folded on the table. Our Foucaults and Platos shut. The next weekend, the class planted trees. I don’t remember this dead boy’s name, but I remember how he died, I remember the Jesuit’s speech. Whenever I’d pass the plot of land, I’d tell whoever I was with, We planted trees for the dead boy. And they’d be in awe of the Jesuit’s heart.

Today is World Mental Health Day. I posted this a while ago, but it stands. There is much more I could tell you about living with this beast, this hulking black dog, though in the passages above, I know that I’ve already revealed so much more than usual. But still, but still. [That double fucked-uppage of having to live—having to find a reason to keep on living—despite the depression, and then having to contend with the possibility that the people around you find it hard to believe that such a darkness exists. “It’s all in your head,” some say. Or, “You know, you can snap out of it if you focus.” Some would accuse you of getting depression deliberately, as if it were the most convenient excuse to purposefully leave your life in shambles. Some keep quiet, and you feel their struggle to understand. Some just nod, and look away, as though they refuse to be tainted, as though they want very much to help, but how, dammit, how, when you can’t even reach inside you and point, “Here, here, this is where it’s darkest.”]

petradactyl: presidents: anglepoiselamp: I don’t care what anyone thinks, bats are ADORABLE. Especially this one, oh god. I made a positively ugly sound when this popped up on my Dashboard. AN UGLY SOUND FOR THE CUTENESS. I squeaked! Gather ‘round the fire, kids, and lemme tell you a tale from mah childhood. For six years, I lived in the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, which my long-lost father had assembled in a fit of usefulness one summer. The top bunk housed my books. Ah, yes, the poignant terror before slumber: Of balsa wood splintering and collapsing, a deluge of yellowing paper pouring down my poor skinny self. For six years, I lived in that bunk bed, and that bunk bed was in a bedroom whose walls were covered with my scribbles [including poorly rendered Pokemon], and the bedroom hugged snug that bunk bed, and I—and others who dared visit—was left with a 7x1.5-foot strip of linoleum to walk on. As I grew older, avoiding the bed posts, my hips would brush the walls with its fading script. My hair caught everywhere. And, oh, my poor bruised elbows. For six years, kids, I lived with bats, long nested in the nowhere-space between ceiling and iron roof. Awakened to their fading chirps, startled to their screeches. The smell, the smell, good lord. Sour and pungent, settling low in your belly, holding fast to your clothes, your skin, ever ready to rise up. Ever there. For six years, I had to sidestep guano on that thin strip of linoleum. Whenever I needed to go outside, I had to check if little bits of bat poo clung to me. Has anyone here ever spent an afternoon scraping off bat shit from otherwise pristinely-kept books? And I never could keep a glass of Coke in my room. Sometimes a bat-ling—not unlike the one pictured above—would maim itself and snuggle against my pillows. Sometimes I’d reach for a book and find the remains of what was probably its mother—died of grief, perhaps?—nestled in what spaces there were between the stacks. I would shriek. My father would make himself known with a knock. He’d come in with a plastic bag. Sometimes I felt these bats’ leather slide against the plastic. So very warm. They always struggled, them little fuckers. And they would scream. Later, later, too soon, I could rely on my brothers. Handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, brooms aloft, bags at the ready.
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petradactyl:

presidents:

anglepoiselamp:

I don’t care what anyone thinks, bats are ADORABLE. Especially this one, oh god.

I made a positively ugly sound when this popped up on my Dashboard. AN UGLY SOUND FOR THE CUTENESS.

I squeaked!

Gather ‘round the fire, kids, and lemme tell you a tale from mah childhood.

For six years, I lived in the bottom bunk of a bunk bed, which my long-lost father had assembled in a fit of usefulness one summer. The top bunk housed my books. Ah, yes, the poignant terror before slumber: Of balsa wood splintering and collapsing, a deluge of yellowing paper pouring down my poor skinny self.

For six years, I lived in that bunk bed, and that bunk bed was in a bedroom whose walls were covered with my scribbles [including poorly rendered Pokemon], and the bedroom hugged snug that bunk bed, and I—and others who dared visit—was left with a 7x1.5-foot strip of linoleum to walk on. As I grew older, avoiding the bed posts, my hips would brush the walls with its fading script. My hair caught everywhere. And, oh, my poor bruised elbows.

For six years, kids, I lived with bats, long nested in the nowhere-space between ceiling and iron roof. Awakened to their fading chirps, startled to their screeches. The smell, the smell, good lord. Sour and pungent, settling low in your belly, holding fast to your clothes, your skin, ever ready to rise up. Ever there.

For six years, I had to sidestep guano on that thin strip of linoleum. Whenever I needed to go outside, I had to check if little bits of bat poo clung to me. Has anyone here ever spent an afternoon scraping off bat shit from otherwise pristinely-kept books? And I never could keep a glass of Coke in my room.

Sometimes a bat-ling—not unlike the one pictured above—would maim itself and snuggle against my pillows. Sometimes I’d reach for a book and find the remains of what was probably its mother—died of grief, perhaps?—nestled in what spaces there were between the stacks.

I would shriek. My father would make himself known with a knock. He’d come in with a plastic bag. Sometimes I felt these bats’ leather slide against the plastic. So very warm. They always struggled, them little fuckers. And they would scream.

Later, later, too soon, I could rely on my brothers. Handkerchiefs pressed to their noses, brooms aloft, bags at the ready.

Source: verticalvest

distantheartbeats:

“Remember: if the sun sets, millions of stars cannot take its place.” — Faiez Al-Samaak.

He was a friend of my father’s. I don’t know much about him, just what my dad has told me. They went to school together in Iraq. My dad had a notebook that he got everyone to write in at the end of the school year. This is what Faiez wrote. I really liked it.

During the American invasion of Iraq in 2003, Faiez was killed. A civillian. A casualty of war. He was one of the many statistics that millions of people read someday in their morning paper. He deserved to be remembered better, and for longer.

He was a sun that set. 

On Undercurrents, and assorted rushed fragments

1

From Undercurrents: A Life Under the Surface, by Martha Manning.

Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door.

For nearly two years now, this quote has been kept in my moldering cell phone’s drafts folder. I brandish Manning’s words when only defiance can save me, or if I am in particular need of a ready, smug response, albeit borrowed. Here are the words. They are not mine. I wouldn’t say that, no, but this will have to do.

2

I found this book by accident. I recognized the spine without me knowing that it was of a book I’d wanted for a really long time.

3

It’s a strange thing, approaching literature dealing with depression when one has, for months now, felt confident that one does not currently have depression. Or, well, not as present a depression. I have dysthymia—I will always have this—and I have been wary of anything triggering the depression’s strengthened presence. Will reading this make me sad? is the question to every book that involves a character who is so much more than sad. I must not invite sadness. And when some sadnesses come unannounced, they must be scrutinized: a moment of extreme solitude in a roomful of friends and supposed joys—even boredom, the inability to hold a book until its end, those moments upon waking when you dread having to function. I give myself passes: You are allowed to skip work today; that commercial was so schmaltzy, of course you’d cry; there are too many people on this train, you’re allowed to feel unbearably weary; this book is so tedious, not even the prospect of lacerating it with snark proves exciting for you; you can go back to sleep, yes, you can.

4

A few months ago, I started The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression by Andrew Solomon. I went into it the way some people would religion. This was going to be a bible. This was going to hold the answers. Or it would hold my hand. Or it would prepare me. I would simply know more. Do I do that with every book about depression that I encounter? Yes, I believe so.

5

This copy of Undercurrents has a child’s scribbles. The heavy press of pencil, the graphite grooves gleaming. Aimless: just lines flashing and pointing. I, of course, imagine that a mother must have read this. Her toddler must have disturbed this book from its place, trying to control a stub of pencil. Mother must have rescued the book, panicked at the defacement—or a sharp object so close to her child’s too-soft skin. Or maybe the child must have soon walked away, and the book drifted shut, to be found much later beneath the living room center table, when it was time to move out, and things no longer needed must be put in boxes and dropped into chainlinked stores.

6

In my third year of college, my Ethics professor’s assistant killed himself. The starchy Jesuit spoke of bravery, of courage: “Suicide isn’t cowardice. It takes supreme courage to stand up to life, to say that you rid of it. To take the choice away from Death.” The glasses folded on the table. Our Foucaults and Platos shut. The next weekend, the class planted trees. I don’t remember this dead boy’s name, but I remember how he died, I remember the Jesuit’s speech. Whenever I’d pass the plot of land, I’d tell whoever I was with, We planted trees for the dead boy. And they’d be in awe of the Jesuit’s heart.