Not Even Not Zen 383: Biomythography - Note 118: Depression

Depression

I didn't want to write about this. But if I'm going to put my stories and thoughts into a family book, it's irresponsible to avoid it.

Everyone deals with depression at some point. Everyone spends time designing or enacting their suicide. Or so I suppose. I became obsessed with it starting at age five. That may have been excellent timing, too, even if it made me a little weird. As with many things from childhood, my morbid drives were poorly focused, apathetic, and easily derailed.

The suicide mindset could have come from my environment. On television, I watched the World at War series complete with the emaciated bodies stacked high. Then the prisoners burned and buried the bodies in mass graves under the watchful eyes and guns of the concentration camp guards. I saw Vietnam War photos of executions and other atrocities - children crying as they ran from a bomb blast, a man with a gun to his head the moment before another man executed him. The world offered lots of examples of pains and cruelties. In my regular (not televised) life, relatives died in manners that I would have expected if I weren't a child. My pets did their jobs in teaching me about death, too. I had plenty of chances to think about mortality. I had reasons to seek it out.

We always have reasons. As I write, I simply no longer have the mindset to care for them.

My childhood frame of mind feels like an alien world. Of course, everyone undergoes a series of personality changes over time. Some of them are profound. Even though I still feel a useful death is important if you can get it, like it's a bonus track to the album of life, I've moved away from contemplating suicide. I'm probably at an opposite extreme now, wanting to die slowly, naturally, and remain conscious to the end. And I've been that way since my late teens. It's part of why it's so odd to contemplate the depressing aspect of my earlier self. I'm leery about this writing and these thoughts.

1. For one thing, dwelling on the past gets overdone.

2. In particular, spending time on the subject of suicide is worse. There's a strong correlation between suicide as a cultural concept and the actual suicides committed in a culture. The more it's part of the discussion, the more some people think of it as their solution. And that was me as a child. And it makes me leery.

Since I've left the mindset behind, I find it hard to recreate. The best I can do is illustrate it with a couple stories.

In fifth grade, despite being in the midst of a crush, drawing in my school books, sparring every Saturday for fun, getting elected to student patrol, and traveling to Russia, I had lots of spare time. Time when I was tired even from trying to read the encyclopedia. In those long bouts of boredom, I planned my suicide. One of my recurring ideas was to make a noose in the curtain cord, jump hard, and strangle.

There's something about a little brother coming into the room while you're giving it a try, though, and punching you. Then it feels dumb. I guess no one wants to partly strangle while getting playfully hit.

I knew then I needed a more competent process. I had to learn to make a noose. One autumn day in a hall of my school, I encountered my friend Greg tying a noose in a piece of string. I halted, amazed. Someone understood how to make the knot I wanted. I backed up, sidled over to him, and studied his practice sessions until I was sure.

When I got home, though, I discovered I hadn't really learned it. I fooled around trying nooses in a clothesline, coming close, and failing. Most of my noose-looking knots wouldn't open or close at all. Once, I stuck my head through what I thought was a noose and the knot fell apart. Obviously, I needed to study more. Days later, back in school, I located Greg in his green blazer jacket. .

"Show me those nooses again," I said to Greg. I moved my empty hands as if I were tying a knot. "I've almost got it."

"No." He stepped away from me.  

"But it's cool!" I protested. Coolness was the thing Greg cared most about. It was almost the only thing he wanted in fifth grade: to be cool. Any mention of it made him fold. Here in the hall on the way to lunch, I knew he had to be as concerned about it as ever. He even looked as stylish as he could be in our school uniform. He had on a white turtleneck beneath his green blazer.

"No." He'd had a string in his hand. Now he put his hands in his pockets.

"Why not?"

"Just no." This time, he wasn't caving in. And that was weird. It felt like someone had gotten to him. He had talked with a classmate and fallen under their influence. I caught him looking behind me and to my right. I turned to see who it was, but there was no student there, only the principal, Mr. Cohen, off in the distance.

 

Had the principal warned Greg not to show me how to make a noose? I couldn't think why Mr. Cohen would care. Had Greg decided for himself? He was a strong-willed boy, so I knew it was possible. But if he made his own decision, then somehow I had given myself away. That worried me. In fifth grade, I was becoming aware of how I kept giving away my thoughts. Other people knew my plans.

I hadn't figured out how they knew. 

 

Over a span of days, maybe weeks, my problems with Greg continued. He had never refused me anything before, partly because he was so concerned with being cool. But he declined to show me how to tie nooses. He stopped bringing twine to school. Eventually, I gave up. I had the sense that someone was watching me, maybe a teacher. The rest of life kept interrupting my suicidal explorations, too. I forgot about nooses. I had the trip to the Soviet Union to prepare for, then endure. I had a crush on Leslie, who was smart and cute and with a bright smile. Eventually, the rest of life gave way to mooning over her. I wanted her to touch me but also I avoided her touch. I thought about her constantly.

By sixth grade I'd admitted to Leslie I liked her a whole, whole lot. I'd said it to her face. And it turned out she didn't hate me. So that was good. Plus, for some reason, I ended up being named valedictorian for our sixth grade graduation instead of Leslie. That didn't make any sense to either of us. I had all As in sixth grade. So did she. But she was just a better, more diligent student. We agreed on it. If you went back to fifth grade, she was better by a fractional point in her scores. How did the administration pick  me instead? Neither of us were sure. Leslie suggested it was because I'd been in the school since pre-kindergarten. She was a newcomer, relatively speaking.

At the time and even now, I wonder if she was judged differently because she was a girl. The teachers often openly loved me and said so. And I loved them back. They seemed skeptical of Leslie. I was never sure why.  

At any rate, I spoke at the dinner before the sixth grade graduation. It was part of the valedictorian job. The next day, I got up in my white shirt and green tie to be introduced as the valedictorian for my class at the graduation.  The school only taught up to sixth grade, so this was it. This was the big deal.

"In his eight years here," said the principal, counting my time correctly to include nursery and kindergarten, "I have never seen Eric smile."

In retrospect, it's a dramatic thing to say. He must have written it down and practiced it. He meant it. Also, I knew it was true. I was not a happy boy. In a very steady way, except when Leslie held my hand, I thought about how I could die and how I should, too, and no one would miss me. The principal had noticed. He may have been trying to tell my parents something with his comment.

He spoke for what seemed like ages, a half-minute of it in praise of me as a student. Even though I had returned to my seat, I felt uncomfortable. Thankfully, he moved on to praise the rest of the students, each and every one as individuals. Then he gave glowing remarks to the teachers, the whole school, and our bright future.  

"Why did your principal say you never smile?" my father asked me after the ceremony. It was an accusation.

I shrugged. "I dunno."

"Well, smile." 

My father's sense of "make yourself smile!" might not have a bad way, at least for some people, some of the time. If you can fake being happy, maybe some part of it will stick with you. Most of the time I received those orders, though, I couldn't manage it. I couldn't even put on a false grin. Sometimes, I could be beaten or threatened into trying but something about it, something in the faking, made me break out in tears and ruin it.

 

This is probably why I was such a joy to pose in pictures.

#

It was a popular theme song. I wandered from my bedroom, humming and singing it. 

The game of life is hard to play

I'm gonna lose it anyway

The losing card I'll someday lay

This is all I have to say:

Suicide is painless

it brings on many changes

and I can take or leave it if I please.

and you can do the same thing if you please.

"Stop that," my mother said. She looked up from tending to a plant in the hallway and gave me a worried scowl.