The Sadness

Ok, now I’m going to share something very personal and somewhat uncomfortable. If you don’t like such things, fast forward to the next funny entry.

Since I was a boy I have suffered from a diagnosed mild to moderate depression. It’s been with me since I was seven, when my parents split up. It was diagnosed when I was 10, when my mother took me to a psychologist. Unfortunately, mom did not have the money to have me treated for the condition, so I’ve continued to live with The Sadness.

That’s what I call it. I’ve heard some call it “The Black Dog,” but my experience with dogs is that they are generally happy-go-lucky creatures who are full of fun and frolic, even the black ones. To call it “The Black Cat” doesn’t have the same drama to it.

And, really, there is no drama here. The condition is something that comes over me daily, usually when I’m trying to get myself going in the morning. It follows me wherever I go, tinges even the most joyful moments with reminders of mortality. When I am with a beautiful woman, it taps me on the shoulder. After I finish watching an entertaining movie, it suddenly blossoms in my heart to remind me that life is not that way. When I am talking to a friend, it sits on my shoulder like Poe’s raven, whispering in my ear “Nevermore.”

In fact, I believe that you really don’t understand “The Raven” unless you have experienced The Sadness. Poe used that dark bird as metaphor for his grief for his child bride. Those of us (and there are millions, my friends) who know The Sadness can give you an exact definition of Nevermore.

I raise this because I have been wrestling with The Sadness recently. There are a thousand reasons for this–as I said, it never really goes away–but the main trigger for The Sadness these days is the loss of the desire to write.

For a writer this can be deadly. Hemingway blew his brains out because he thought the muse deserted him. Poets poison themselves because they lost the desire to create. Friends, I could go on and on about how writers and poets are really hothouse flowers who wilt at the first sign of distress.

I am not a hothouse flower. I would have abandoned my writing goals years ago otherwise. But when The Sadness descends upon me with the weight and power of a boulder, I stagger. I wonder if this time, this time it’s going to be permanent. If this time I will finally quit as the universe seems to mock me into doing every minute of the day.

I’m 64 years old. I’ve been scribbling stories and poems and essays since I was 10. Somehow, the scribbling often makes me deal with The Sadness. I wrote a whole 80,000 word memoir last year to explain this to myself. In fact, I wrote the memoir twice because I thought it was about the Beatles at first. Turns out, it was about how the Beatles helped me deal with The Sadness.

I’m not trying to get you to feel sorry for me. I’m pretty good at doing that myself. But I also hate it. Whining. Who needs it?

No, I’m sharing with you something that shadows my life. As Bukowski (another man who dealt with The Sadness) once wrote, what matters is how you walk through the fire. I’m walking through the fire right now, my friends. Let’s see if I get to the other side.