Depression's good side?

Our culture has an interesting relationship with depression. Some pundits lament what they see as the overmedication of America. Eric Wilson wrote a book called Against Happiness, in which he talks about a vital need for sorrow as part of the human condition which we medicate away at our own peril. I have heard some people in religious communities refer to depression as a product of selfish thinking, a lack of faith, or simply a "trial" we must walk through. Depression has become the malady du jour for artists, writers, and thinkers. Somehow we think that the darkness that some people descend into holds important insights into the human condition. If they had not fallen into darkness, what would become of their works of genius? Sometimes I think it is an unwritten rule that only dark, depressing novels (paintings, songs, movies, et cetera) can be taken seriously as real art that has something to say.

Peter D. Kramer is a clinical professor of psychiatry at Brown University and author of several books on depression. I stumbled across a 2005 article he wrote for the New York Times magazine called There's Nothing Deep About Depression, in which he examines more closely this odd sort of reverence we seem to hold for the depressed state. Here is a little excerpt:

Audiences seemed to be aware of the medical perspective, even to endorse it -- but not to have adopted it as a habit of mind. To underscore this inconsistency, I began to pose a test question: We say that depression is a disease. Does that mean that we want to eradicate it as we have eradicated smallpox, so that no human being need ever suffer depression again? I made it clear that mere sadness was not at issue. Take major depression, however you define it. Are you content to be rid of that condition?

Always, the response was hedged: aren't we meant to be depressed? Are we talking about changing human nature?

I took those protective worries as expressions of what depression is to us. Asked whether we are content to eradicate arthritis, no one says, ''Well, the end-stage deformation, yes, but let's hang on to tennis elbow, housemaid's knee and the early stages of rheumatoid disease.'' Multiple sclerosis, acne, schizophrenia, psoriasis, bulimia, malaria -- there is no other disease we consider preserving. But eradicating depression calls out the caveats.

I have a bit of experience with depression, both personally and with family members. It isn't, so far as I've been able to tell, a mysterious fount of inspiration, but, rather, a debilitating disease. I sometimes wonder if, in our enchantment with the dazzlingly depressing in various art forms, we have mistaken despair for realism, sickness for courage, and darkness for insight. I suspect our fascination with the thoughts of the deeply depressed is just the most socially acceptable form of voyeurism available outside of reality TV.

Now, I don't deny sorrow a place in our lives. There is certainly a difference--however disputed the line may be--between clinical depression and sadness. Neither do I suggest we only allow happy endings (although I admit to being inordantly fond of them). Life can be brutal and horrific. Denying that suffering exists does nothing to alleviate it. But perhaps it is time to recognize that depression is not a higher state, a nirvana from which to bring back gems of truth, a normal thing for those of an "artistic temperament." Depression is a sickness every bit as real and every bit as dangerous as hypertension or diabetes, and I think we ought to take it seriously enough to separate it from the complex, brilliant creativity sometimes found in those who suffer from it.

Speaking of the magic of writing...

Some writers are really good planners. They research, plan, plot, make character reference sheets, and compose detailed outlines of their story. I, on the other hand, am more the I'll-know-what-it's-about-when-I'm-done kind of writer. Well, yesterday on my lunch hour I was thinking I would write a sort of diary entry by the main character of a story I've been thinking about for a couple years. When I picked up my pencil, I had an urge to write instead from a secondary character's perspective. When I was done, I suddenly realized that this character should actually be the viewpoint character, with their story as the main plot. How cool is that? I love it when totally unplanned things happen and change everything for the better!

Morning Pages

One of the ways I've found to deal with depression, confusion, frustration, anger, and a variety of other potentially harmful emotional states is through writing. For some reason when I put pen or pencil to paper and start writing whatever comes to mind, the waters of my mind grow calm, the mud settles, and things get a little clearer. I've even found that writing is, for me, a way of praying in ink.

Unfortunately, life sometimes has a way of short-circuiting the very things that make life livable, the things that keep us more or less sane. Jobs, children, weather, sickness, depression itself--there are all kinds of factors that make it hard for me to keep writing. I've been trying to use my lunch hours to work on a story that's been ping-ponging around my head for a couple years, but I find I still need the unstructured dialog between myself and a blank page for the sake of my mental health. Enter morning pages.

Morning pages are an idea promoted by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity, and her idea has been picked up and propagated by all manner of writing and art teachers, bloggers, and other creative types. You can read a pretty good description here, but the basics are pretty simple:

• Sit down every morning and write three pages longhand.
• Keep writing, letting your thoughts (or lack thereof) tumble out stream-of-consciousness style.
• Don't worry about style, punctuation, or even making sense. Don't stop, edit, or correct.
• The goal is to unload the clutter, confusion, and baggage from our minds so that we can enter the rest of the day with clarity and unobstructed creativity.

Of course, most of us have encountered this idea somewhere in school as "free-writing," a technique I have made use of off and on throughout my life for the purpose of brainstorming, journaling, or working through something. The idea of morning pages is to use free-writing as a daily practice. If free-writing is going to the mechanic when your car overheats, writing morning pages is performing regular oil changes and checking the coolant. Being, to use a complimentary term, a "free spirit," I am not much good at anything that requires a daily practice. Even so, I am going to attempt to establish this daily practice of morning pages, for the sake of myself and my family.

I see this intimate time with my thoughts as my own version of meditation, letting me breathe onto the page, focusing on the breath, observing what comes, nurturing it, letting it be transformed. It is my medication, written Prozac, free therapy. It is my connection to the creativity within, clearing the passages that allow that creativity to flow into the visible world, to birth something bright and alive. I may or may not ever make a living by writing; but it is enough if, by writing, I can live.

Back to the Well

The longer I go without writing, the higher my expectations for what I should be writing get, and the harder it is for me to start writing again. Is anyone else this way, or am I the only loony in this particular bin? If I was this way about food, my belly wouldn't get in the way of my yoga exercises anymore!

I took a wonderful online class last spring called The Beginning Writer's Workshop. It was fun, it stretched me, and I did very well in it. Around that time, I had quit blogging to focus more on the "real world" and concentrate on writing projects. In spite of finishing this wonderful class and making more time by ending my blog, guess what happened? You got it: I had trouble writing anything at all this summer. In spite of the fact that it completely contradicted all the advice offered by the instructor, I think the class raised my expectations to the point where I kept waiting until I felt good enough, had enough time, and was inspired enough to produce a masterpiece. Instead of concentrating on my writing, I just quit.

I'm going to blame it on my bad memory. I can never seem to remember that creativity is like a well that fills rather than empties as I draw out of it. Every word written is worthwhile, even if it is only to get it out of my brain so I can see the word that was hiding underneath it.

So now I'm blogging again, writing in my journal(s), and jotting down notes, quotes, and other thoughts about anything and everything in my pocket notebook. It feels good to be drawing from the well again. Nothing particularly profound has bubbled out; but when I look down, the glint of sunlight on the water seems a little closer to the top than it was yesterday.