In my last post, I gave you a catalogue of trials and tribulations, from a broken sewer line to a strong bout of clinical depression. I’ve always believed that the Book of Job in the Bible was allegorical. I mean, who would believe so much shit could be heaped on the head of such a decent, honest human being? And with God’s approval? Today, I would file Job’s story under nonfiction versus religious studies or philosophy. In short, because of my experiences these last few months, I understand Job’s struggles a LOT more.
I’m not looking for sympathy. Everyone deals with sadness and calamities in their lives. That’s part of being a human being. The world is a broken place, with broken people calling the shots. My little laundry list of struggles is pretty inconsequential compared to Super El Niños and genocides and famines. In fact, most people would look at my life and think, “What the hell do you have to be upset about?” And those people would be correct.
That doesn’t negate the power of prolonged depression. Rationally, I know I’m a really lucky person—roof over my head, food in the fridge, warm clothes, and jobs that pay all the bills (for the most part). Overwhelming sadness, however, is not rational. It comes from a place of worry, fear, and anxiety.
Marie Howe writes about looming dread . . .
The Cold Outside
by: Marie Howe
Soon I will die, he said—that was during the heat wave that summer:
the orange lilies bending toward the house beside the driveway,
the heater in his car broken on blasting.
And the green shade flapped against the window screen,
as if what was out there inhaled and exhaled,
sliding away from the window, banging lightly against the sill,
sucked flat against the screen,
then peeling off and blowing out again.
Today the cold outside is bright and brittle,
heaps of hard snow between the sidewalk and the street,
and look, someone has shoveled a narrow path in front of the bakery,
so that, walking, a person has to step aside
and let another person through,
or pass through as the other person steps aside.
Soon I will die, he said, and then
what everyone has been afraid of for so long will have finally happened,
and then everyone can rest.
This is not an easy poem. It’s a hard poem, filled with hard reality. I’ve seen enough of my loved ones fade away and die to know both the pain and relief of loss. My brother died suddenly, only after suffering for years with the effects of a stroke. My sister, Sally, struggled for over two years, and my sister, Rose, was in and out of the hospital several times in the last year of her life. Both of my parents ended up in nursing homes near the end of their lives.
Emily Dickinson wrote that Death “kindly stops” to pick up passengers, because, in the face of immense, daily anguish, mortality IS kind. Terrifying (if you don’t believe in an afterlife), but kind. I think Death did kindly stop for my mom, dad, sisters, and brother. And don’t forget that the other passenger in Dickinson’s fatal carriage ride, besides Dickinson herself, is Immortality. That’s the reason I find Dickinson’s vision of the Grim Reaper almost hopeful. It’s not an end. It’s a journey.
Of course, that knowledge doesn’t make the absence of someone you love any easier. Loss is loss, and it comes with a whole trainload of grief. As a way to combat my recent depression, I’ve been streaming episodes of the sitcom M*A*S*H. It’s a TV show I have clear memories of watching with my entire family, every week. Sure, my father was sort of MAGA-ish before MAGA was even a thing. And yes, I didn’t always understand the episodes dealing with the insanities of war when I was younger. But Hawkeye and BJ and Klinger and Colonel Potter and Hot Lips and the rest of the 4077th showed up every week, without fail.
I often get stuck on movies and TV shows, watching them over and over and over to the dismay of my wife and son. I reread books from my youth, as well. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited Holden Caulfield or Wilbur and Charlotte or Willy Wonka. It’s comforting to know how the story ends, even if that ending is incredibly sad. (Charlotte’s death destroys me every time.) No surprises.
That’s very comforting for a person dealing with overwhelming fear and anxiety and sadness. It’s like a security blanket. Sure Holden has a breakdown at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, but he’s getting help and will eventually be reunited with his beloved little sister Phoebe. Yes, the Korean War ends and Hawkeye returns to Crabapple Cove, but he survived. If I know the fates of all these characters I love, I don’t have to worry about the future (which, for me, is a constant source of Sturm und Drang).
Last Sunday, my puppy was attacked again by a German shepherd. The attack resulted in some serious wounds that required surgery. There is a row of staples running down my puppy’s back; it looks like she’s been zippered into her body. She’s going to be alright, thank God. However, this past week has been really difficult for me, mood wise. Let’s just say that even Hawkeye couldn’t save my emotional life.
I’m going to be okay. I tell myself that every morning. Remind myself of it frequently during the day. Repeat it as I’m drifting off to sleep. It’s my mantra at the moment. I’ll keep chanting it in my head until my puppy is healed, my plumbing problems are fixed, and you-know-who is no longer occupying the Oval Office. At the moment, those things seem impossible.
But Saint Marty knows, as the song goes, the sun will come out tomorrow. In the meantime, here’s a poem Saint Marty wrote about impossible things that are true . . .
The Impossibility of Honey
by: Martin Achatz
Saturn is gas, would float in a bathtub
lead snows on Venus’s mountaintops
Jupiter’s red pupil is a 300-year-old storm
winter lasts 42 pitch-black years on Uranus
the Sun dances in Mercury’s skies—rising, stopping, reversing
one volcano on Mars could swallow Arizona
Neptune was discovered through math: x + y = planet
ice mountains float across Pluto’s surface
and bees fly 750 miles on Earth to create
a single teaspoon of sweetness
