finding the path through mordor

Lately--scratch that--most of my life, I have lived with some level of melancholy, or depression, or blahs, pessimism, anxiety, despair, or general funk (he's a cranky one, that General Funk). Break out the thesaurus, then: ennui, poor spirits, lowness, mourning for I know not what. It is what has often shaped my view of life, given me insight, crippled me, inspired me, and paradoxically, shown me the miraculous love of God. Most of the time it's just a little bit of funk, nor have the really bad times been so persistent as to incapacitate me more than once or twice.

I'm spending time thinking through these feelings, and am going soon to a few specialists to see if there's some underlying thing that has been missing--hormonal?--biochemical?--spiritual? I sure hope they find something, because just going back to therapy, as nice as my counselor is, is just not a fun way to spend my free time. Hashing through wounds that I thought were nicely scabbed over, opening the stuffed closets of my mind; though instructive, these things take enormous amounts of energy and leave me feeling like a peeled nerve on a sidewalk.

When life is pretty good, normal activities are fine and I am content, the melancholy is far below the surface. Like when you're in a quiet house but you know the TV is on somewhere. "You're feeling low," a little voice says. I respond politely, "No, you are mistaken." "I'm still here, you know, if you need me," it says. That's about 25 percent of my days.
Other times it's like Venice during the floods. The water's right there, it's not too deep, and the city has helpfully provided a raised boardwalk across the piazza for the populace. Dreary, yes, and liable to slip into the polluted shallows*, but there is still a way forward with some clarity. I'd rather be indoors than on the path, but I know that St. Mark's Cathedral(**) is at the end. That's about 45 percent of the time for me.
*my friend has talked about falling into the Baltimore harbor/bay and getting "Baids" from the funk therein. Blehhhh! So grody!
**When I visited St. Mark's in college, I described it to D as "walking around inside a gold nugget." I was thoroughly sick of churches by that time, so I'm sure I'd be more charitable if I visited again.
About once a month, the melancholy is more like an active lava flow (all kinds of gross inferences can be drawn from that). One could theoretically walk across the black parts, but a throbbing undercurrent of molten rock is waiting to bubble up through the delicate shell. Those days I spend gingerly picking my way across, fearful of going forward--of going anywhere at all, but knowing the longer I stay there, the more precarious my footing.

The lava days are especially dangerous, as almost anything can bubble up from my past, rational or not, to condemn me (the latest example: the time in 5th grade when I voted for myself as Dorothy in my class' Wizard of Oz play. Having only 16 people in my class was a definite hindrance to anonymity. I felt bad for being so egotistical, but I also knew I was the best person to do it). Identity questions and guilt over fundamental decisions are also a plague. So: my main job is motherhood (I guess?), but I will die if I do not spend significant amounts of time creating--anything, writing, sculpting, painting, crocheting. Housekeeping concurrently fills me with loathing and condemnation for avoiding it. Guilt follows each decision, as the decision to write means I'm neglecting my child, the decision to take A to a kiddie place means my brain is going fallow, etc... I do not pretend that any of this is rational, reasonable, or gracious. That's what makes it so insidious. What kind of idiot sits around thinking about stupid crap they did in 5th grade, that may or may not even have been bad to begin with? Ah, but I do. It's what D calls emotional judo. Bow to the master.

The worst stage of melancholy, which is really full-blown severe depression, I'd like to call the Mordor Walk. If you haven't read/seen Lord of the Rings, well go read it for Pete's sake. What's your problem? Sam and Frodo have a mission to destroy the ring by getting through Sauron's land --Mordor, and casting the ring into the fire of Mount Doom. It really looks stupid to write that, and I don't know how Tolkein got through without snickering, or maybe he was one of those really literal nerds who don't understand sarcasm. Well there it is. Mordor is a hateful land, full of evil things, and guarded at one end by a monstrous spider named Shelob. Frodo and Sam go through her lair, which is full of impenetrable, palpable darkness. Tolkein describes the depth of that darkness, with the overpowering smell of decaying filth, and says "all senses were cut off save that of smell, and that remained only for their torment." Or something like that. Like changing a diaper in the dark. Only sheer will and supernatural assistance got them through.

You don't need to be a genius to see the parallels with depression. I have been fortunate to only have experienced this last one a handful of times. Very bleak times, indeed.

One of those times was after the birth of my son. Besides the trauma of that experience (and I can use the word trauma very literally here), there were a lot--I mean a LOT--of other things going on physically, or rather, a lot of things that should have been going on but weren't. All those factors drove me into a fog I had never experienced before. By some miracle, or again an act of sheer will, I managed to have an art show or two, and run the gallery for my church, and a few other things too. But initially, I considered the day a resounding success if I hadn't sobbed uncontrollably and managed to feed A as much as he needed (which was a boatload, the little piglet). Forget doing dishes, cleaning anything at all, getting groceries, doing errands. Eventually I could go to one place a day without major exhaustion. The thought of going anywhere filled me with dread; not from fear, but from all the mental effort of planning our outings and the physical demands of lugging the carseat and stroller, diaper bag, and piglet, and knowing he'd have a massive blowout or be ravenous the minute we stepped into Target. I felt like I was going crazy, like I was a complete wimp for not being able to cope with easy things that new moms did every day. I conveniently forgot that most new moms had at least some blood in their veins and functioning thyroids, and I really didn't see their day-to-day emotions and struggles either. I was too tired to experience rational thought.

Isolation is he biggest weapon in depression's arsenal. The person feels alone, has no energy to do things that would require being with others, and then the cycle perpetuates itself and spirals into even more isolation. It's almost impossible to not be isolated when you have a new baby, it's wintertime, and your own body has sabotaged itself. Now I know the truth about the isolation fog, and can evaluate those times in light of the facts. I have experienced healing of the trauma, healing in my body, and the healing that comes with time. I have not forgotten the events by any means, but revisiting them does not send me into a tailspin like it did.

So many of my friends are having babies again, or adopting again, or having a baby for the first time (I can think of at least 8 right now), I can't help but compare my experience to theirs. It's bittersweet; the fact that these moms are doing so well is a huge comfort to me. At the same time I can't help but wonder if things had gone smoothly for me, if my body had not revolted against me, what that would have been like. I can't really imagine it another way, but I am happy that my little piglet has grown to be such a terrific little person, whether or not his mommy is fighting with General Funk.