—ANONYMOUS
WHILE The Divine Comedy can be seen from the perspective of manic-depression or creativity, it is best known as a glorious spiritual journey. Indeed, many people who consider religion or spirituality to be a major focus of their lives say that their quest began when they became lost in their own version of Dante’s dark wood (or “dark night of the soul,” as St. John of the Cross put it in the sixteenth century). Even Eckhart Tolle, the author of the best-selling Power of Now books tells the story of how he experienced his spiritual awakening after years of alternating depression and anxiety.
That’s why I suggest, only partly in jest, that some kind of emotional breakdown may be as direct a path to the experience of enlightenment as six years under a fig (bodhi) tree, forty days and nights in a desert, seven-day sesshins at a Zen Center, three-day vision quests in the middle of nowhere, and/or beating yourself up by trying to put your attention on the NOW.
The role that deep depression often plays in spiritual or personal transformation has led many people to suggest that we should meditate, not medicate away the pain … that those dark nights are part of being human—in fact, one of the most meaningful parts of being human. Whenever I read words to this effect, I wonder if the writer knows (or remembers) what major depression really feels like. It hurts. Okay? It hurts.
To be fair, meditation can be an excellent therapy for anxiety and depression—whether it involves following your breath, chanting, repeating a soothing mantra, reciting a heartfelt prayer, watching a sunset, or just lying on the ground and looking up at the clouds. However, few would recommend withholding medication from people with headaches, broken legs, heart disease, or cancer, arguing that if they’d just suck it up and transcend the pain, they might reach some kind of enlightened healing. But, for some reason, we’re worried that madness, meditation, and medication don’t mix?
During my twenties and thirties, I spent countless hours (actually, probably only ±4,000, now that I think of it) sitting with my legs crossed, watching my breath, and trying to still my mind. In the process, I frequently had moments of madness and transcendence—occasionally simultaneously.
So, at first, I believed that I could handle my breakdown with a kind of equanimity that most people couldn’t even dream of. That, even in the midst of my darkest night, the Real Me would remain detached, fully aware of its own True Self, like a Zen master sitting on his meditation cushion in the midst of a hurricane. But as I learned early on, you can’t get up from the cushion and walk away from agitated depression when the bell rings.
This inability to calmly bear witness to my mixed states just intensified my feelings of inadequacy. When a fellow traveler kindly and curiously asked why I didn’t just “sit with it,” in the way we’d both been trained, I wrote back:
So you ask, what about simply being in the now, sinking fully into the moment … no matter how uncomfortable? Yes. I agree. I want to. Lord knows, I want to. But I’ve learned that trying to do so is now, for me, at best a prayer … because the experience invariably continues whether I’m “trying” or “not trying.”
As strange as the “uselessness” of my traditional spiritual practices were in all this, those whom I turned to for what I considered a bigger picture—one in which enlightenment is just one aspect of spirituality—weren’t much more encouraging. I wrote:
It’s surprising and frustrating that virtually all the people I now go to for guidance encourage me not to do anything. And not to feel guilty about doing nothing. They say I should certainly take care of myself, eat good food, get outside—regular healthy human stuff. But that sometimes it’s fine to just take some Valium and pull the covers over my head. Patience, I hear again and again. Just patience. “Resistance is futile,” they’ve all said in one way or another. Watch “bad” movies. Read “bad” books. Just be patient and let the storm pass through you.
What a mysterious path for someone like me, huh? I mean, how the hell is the universe going to respond to a guy who’s constantly equivocating, shuffling his feet, saying it doesn’t matter, and crying every chance he gets? There must be something I can DO. Can’t I at least be the one who surrenders?
No, they’re saying. They’re saying that the idea of my trying to “do” anything, in the sense of “I” have the “power” is, in this case, a little off the mark. That’s not the lesson.
At least when I rest in the bright light they all assure me is coming, I’ll be under no illusions that I brought myself there through sheer force of my own creativity, intelligence, insight, or efforts. I’ll know, in my bones, that it was and is, rather, through sheer grace I am again able to experience the unspeakable joy of being alive, of being grateful, and of having compassion for all other beings.
One of my more energetic alternative healers referred to the energy called kundalini in her attempt to describe what the heck I was going through.
In keeping with our Western define-divide-conquer attitude toward virtually any experience, most of us equate the concept of kundalini with the mastery of specific sexual techniques. Which, considering what you can learn just standing in most supermarket checkout lines, makes you wonder why all our heads aren’t exploding with energy that we’ve recklessly raised from the base of our spines … with or without the help of some willing partner.
Not to throw a wet towel over this impression, but at least from the perspective of several centuries-old spiritual traditions (primarily Hindu), kundalini is in everyone. It moves in different ways and to greater or lesser degrees depending on the person and the circumstances. For some people it stays fairly dormant. For others it bursts forth as a result of specific exercises or some random configuration of internal, karmic, planetary, or other factors.
Whether you try to manage this energy by doing special breathing exercises, having intercourse in complex positions, or screaming in desperation, the result is usually transformational. Because, as my friend explained, kundalini energy is really fiery. It tends to rage out of control, consuming everything in its way until you end up all shiny and new—if you live that long. (One could argue that the prime cause of some suicides is uncontrollable kundalini energy.)
This is something Dante understood. Because, in addition to one helluva episode of manic-depression and a traditional spiritual journey, The Divine Comedy can also be seen as the most famous kundalini experience of all time. In just three days—the poem takes place between Good Friday and Easter in 1300—Dante is completely transformed from a bumbling writer to God’s right-hand man. In the process, he suffers deep despair, is frequently scared out of his wits, and walks through fire until nothing remains except him and his Lord.
One of the most classic meditation practices is simply to focus on the famous koan, “Who am I?” By doing so, meditators are able to become aware of their many disparate “selves” (e.g., the one who’s a perfectionist, the one who’s never on time, the one who feels misunderstood, the one who’d rather be doing anything but meditating!) By getting a little distance from all those unruly selves, you can sometimes collect them in a way that gives you a sense of a “higher” Self.
When you’re really depressed, it’s easy to be aware of all those selves without even trying! In addition to your run-of-the-mill selves, there’s the painfully sad self you constantly feel imprisoned by, the self who’s bursting at the seams, the passably sane self you manage to project out in the world, the panic-y self who’s watching all this with increasing horror, and some quiet self, barely sensed, seemingly impossible to reach, who maintains a distance, a wonder, a curiosity, and even some hope in the midst of it all.
Many people who are successfully treated for depression say, “I feel like myself again.” At first, whenever I had a brief respite and, ultimately, when my meds started working, that was my experience. But for me, and I suspect for many others, that was soon replaced by the sense that I felt like someone very, very different—a Self who was no longer so swept away by what all his “little selves”
were doing; in fact, who appreciated them for what they were and the equally important roles they played in his life.
Yes, depression can be excruciating. Yes, if I have a relapse, I will try everything I can to find a cure. Yes, it pains me to think of those who aren’t fortunate enough to find relief—in particular, those who find relief only in suicide. But it’s important for those mired in the illness to know that their lives are not being wasted … that their experiences are as valuable as those of the happy … that these are not “lost years.”
We don’t need depression to be creative or spiritual. At the same time, we are creative and spiritual even when in its grasp. That creativity and spirituality may not be apparent to the world, or even to ourselves, but it’s there.
For sufferers, this fact may provide a modicum of reassurance that what they’re going through is not a sign of weakness or indulgence; that there’s not something “wrong” with them. It just hurts. For those whose life’s mission is to treat or eradicate this disease “once and for all,” the same fact may be a helpful reminder that, until they succeed, there is still great wisdom for those who endure it.
I had profound insights and moments of deep contentment before, during, and after my episode—in good times and bad, even during long existential but-not-depressed dark nights. As I emerged in mid-2007, I would sit on our porch staring out at the trees, overwhelmed by the delicious sensation of just sitting on our porch staring out at the trees. Psychosis certainly isn’t a one-way ticket to cosmic consciousness. In fact, all too often, it’s a one-way ticket to something far different. But I wouldn’t be where I am today—I wouldn’t even be able to sit still long enough to write these words—unless, one way or another, the storm hadn’t passed.
All I know is that if we are to make war on depression in ourselves or in others, we first need to make our peace with it.
Back when I was in my deepest extremis, I started signing virtually all my emails LOVE (all caps). Not in business correspondence, of course, or messages to anyone I thought it would make uncomfortable but, for the most part, I stopped making that subtle delineation between “Best,” “All the Best,” “Cheers,” and even “Love.” Instead I steadfastly clung to “LOVE.”
It was more a prayer than a sentiment … a gesture toward human contact, bursting forth against all sensate-ness from that place where I was incapable of experiencing. To say that I’m more loving since my breakdown not only seems kind of melodramatic, it doesn’t really capture the experience. I still get annoyed. I still get frustrated. I don’t walk into a group of people and feel equal and unconditional love for all of them. (Although, I admit, it’s no longer a very hard sensation for me to have for a few moments if I put my heart, mind, and body to it.)
But as I moved through this process, compassion for the suffering, sadness, or even idiocy(!) of any and all people and things backed and filled behind me, fueled by my complete and utter gratitude for even the briefest respite.
I feel that my internal chemistry has changed … that I’ve been rewired. That I’m simply incapable of making the inner connections that you’d need to be really pissed off … to think that someone is really a complete and utter idiot.
If I learned anything “spiritually” from the experience, it wasn’t about living in the moment (I’m still as all over the place as ever), or about self-awareness (I still have so many selves to be aware of, it’s hard to keep track!), it’s about being more open, curious, and yes, I daresay loving, than I could have ever imagined being. This feeling is very different from “non-judgmental” as I used to understand it. It’s more a knowing in my bones that everyone has a place in the big picture and that place is as legitimate and as important as mine. I no longer say (or think), “Well he has a right to his opinion.” Of course, he has it! Who was I to even suggest I could give him that right? What makes me superior enough to put on spiritual robes and say what someone else’s journey should look like?
I also had no choice but to learn about one of the greatest spiritual “barriers” we face. A barrier that’s less noticed and more pervasive than I ever realized. One that’s impossible to avoid when you’re brought to your knees, especially if you follow the “official” Depressive’s Mantra that a friend of mine developed. It throws down three gauntlets:
“It will pass.” (Okay, that’s hard to believe, but I’ll keep it in mind.)
“Be kind to yourself.” (Would love to, if I could figure out what the hell it means?)
But the last? “Ask for help?” (Ouch.)
Feeling love for everyone around you is easy compared to receiving love from all around you. But when you’re in the state I was in, you don’t have a lot of choice. And that’s one of the most humbling and healing spiritual lessons of all.
Bottom line, we’re all spiritual beings. Just like we’re all physical, emotional, and mental beings. I understand why Dantean hierarchical structures are important for many people to maintain a sense of order in their spiritual pursuits. And I suppose that certain people have a brighter spiritual light (to people who see those kinds of things)—in the same way Babe Ruth might have had a brighter physical light, Einstein might have had a brighter mental light, or Mother Teresa might have had a brighter emotional light.
But, I think it’s really healthy for all of us to realize that we’re just as spiritual as the next person. And not just when we’re in the church, temple, mosque, or meditation hall. Spirituality shows up in all aspects of our lives—everybody’s life. I don’t have to turn off my spiritual light in order to study genetics, fall in love, or play power forward … although I may have to grow a few inches to do the latter.
Until my breakdown I thought I knew what spirituality looked like. And it simply didn’t look like a guy who was so agitated he couldn’t even finish washing a window. I didn’t fully accept the fundamental truth that every step on the path, “forward” or “back” is as “spiritual” as the one before.
One afternoon, Emily sent me a Mary Oliver poem, and I spent the whole afternoon repeating the refrain on and off to myself: “What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty. What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty. What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty. What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.”
Another day, a friend sent me a tape by a channeled spirit named Abraham. I couldn’t look at the screen while it played … something about the woman who channeled him made my head hurt … although many things made my head hurt at the time. But one thing Abraham said has stayed with me through the years. A woman stood up to ask a question and said she couldn’t ask it without crying. Abraham said, “Well, you can either not ask the question or ask the question while crying.”
During my breakdown, I had a lot of questions. Those words helped me ask them without resistance—without questioning that what I was going through was as valid a human experience as the President’s, the Dalai Lama’s, or the homeless guy who hits me up for coffee money every morning. We find our jewels where we find them.
WHAT DO YOU DO FOR AN ENCORE? YOU’RE 55 YEARS, a few months, and a week or so old. You’ve been breathing life into the greatest story ever told for twenty years, somehow integrating seemingly every last bit of your worldly and otherworldly wisdom, even as it morphs and grows by leaps and bounds.
Fourteen thousand lines. No word processor. No outlining program. Not a whole lot of paper to take notes on. You’re don’t even have a permanent office!
What do you do when you wake up the next morning?
In Dante’s case, he didn’t have to worry about that very long. His current patron in Ravenna, Guido Novello da Polenta, sensing that he was at a bit of a loss about what to do next, gave him a challenging, but straightforward mission. To go on one more road trip: up to Venice to negotiate an agreement with the Venetians about sharing control of the Adriatic.
Dante wasn’t any more successful than he’d been back in 1300 when he tried to find some common ground between Rome and Flore
nce. Not only did Venice spurn his offers, they made him return by a more circuitous swampy route. He came down with malaria. Fortunately, his daughter Antonia recently had come to Ravenna and joined a nunnery … taking the name Beatrice, of course. She was with him when he died.
Beholding the Stars
It scarcely mattered whether he was happy or unhappy, he was alive and he was fully aware that he was alive and that was enough.
—ERICH MARIA REMARQUE
MY RECOVERY CONTINUED through the summer of 2007. Like a tree straightening up after having been bent this way and that by fierce winds from every direction. Breezes would still come along, sometimes strong ones, but in the process of holding on so tight for so long, my roots had grown deeper and stronger.
I’d usually wake up at 5 A.M. And fall back asleep until 6. I’d begun to keep a thermos of tea next to the bed and would spend the next hour sipping the tea, maybe dozing, mostly scratching our new cat, and letting myself dream, just thinking quietly about things, waiting for some idea that sparked something and got me interested in the day.
It seemed that every few days or week brought a quiet milestone. I went bike riding early one morning with my friends again. (I’d been riding by myself for most of the season … usually in the afternoon.) On another morning, I got up, took the tea with me out to the cabin and put in a few hours of work. I found I could start a small project and neither abandon it nor force myself to finish it by some arbitrary deadline. Occasionally, I’d find myself in the middle of a mild skirmish or major battle with my still-skittish brain and—whether by working out, nibbling on a pill, or just stepping back—find a way to make peace.
There was something almost exhilarating about being with people. Being able to sit through a dinner or stand and make small-talk was a shocking breakthrough in interpersonal skills. I could make people laugh again. I could help people see things differently again. It was as if I had my own one-person cheering section in my brain applauding my efforts, encouraging every step, like you would encourage a baby to walk.
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