February 03, 2008

Is it True that "Depression is a Choice"?

If my depression is a choice, then I must choose to be depressed for two weeks and then to NOT be depressed for two other weeks, intermittently. I don't think that makes a lot of sense.

Public records of insanity

I have often wondered why human beings should have to wait for courts or psychiatrists to declare them insane or infirm, when they may be perfectly capable of making this declaration to the public on their own, for mosts practical intents and purposes. Public declarations of insanity, such as those that individuals can make on the Internet, may serve as a record for family, friends and others of an individual "lost his marbles" and how they got them back, should that happen.

My psychologist suggests that I stop writing in my suicide blog. "You don't know what effect what you say will have on others," she says. But, the idea that my thoughts of suicide can convince others to commit suicide seems to ignore a simple fact: it's people's own depression, conflicts, disappointments and "tristezas" that make them suicidal, not someone elses. A person who does not share any of these characteristic symptoms will find this journal wholly irrelevant, unless she has a family member, friend or client who shares these symptoms. In that case, these reflections may be useful to someone.

My Most Pervasive Globalized Thoughts of Self-Hate and Suicide

My psychologist insists that my depression originates in my globalized thoughts, such as the thought that "I have myself" - a thought that makes me feel angry, sad and desperate - all of which thoughts lead to the still more globalized thought that "I wish I were dead."

In fact, my most pervasive globalized thoughts are that "I hate myself" and "I wish I were dead," precisely in that order. But, just as we can learn something by abandoning the word "racist" and identifying specific ideational, emotional and physical behavior patterns that are color-aroused and dysfunctional, in others and in ourselves, so I can learn something about myself when I say, "I hate myself when . . . " and "I wish I were dead when . . ."

I hate myself when I look at seven hundred women walking along the street before and beside me and I am compelled to accept that I cannot have one or all of them. And then I wish I were dead.

I hate myself when I think of things I would need to do, in addition to what I am already doing, to make a go of it, and I realize that I am not willing to do those things. And then I feel trapped in my own unwillingness and I wish I were dead.
Parenthetically, I feel desperate when I realize that the United States may well be on the verge of electing its first woman or Black president - a lifelong goal of mine to see that happen - and yet, in my private depressions, I feel so overwhelmed with my own grief that I wish I were dead, regardless of whether I live to see my aspirations all of the social and political changes I hoped for are on the verge of being realized and I feel so bad that I don't want to live to see the changes come to fruition.
I hate myself when when I leave a woman who loves me and I find myself alone.
Parenthetically, my psychologist insists that my depression originates in my globalized thoughts, such as the thought that "I have myself" - a thought that makes me feel angry, sad and desperate - all of which thoughts lead to the still more globalized thought that "I wish I were dead."
I hate myself when I suspect that my friends and the public are ignoring my blog.

I hate myself when I think I am inconsequential, but I don't stop hating myself when everything tells me that I am making a big difference. That is a symptom of depression.

Dreams from my Immolation

I dreamed that all of my new white clothes, including my shorts that I bought in São Paulo, had blue in on them, so I looked unsuccessfully for a place to soak them in water. They were probably ruined.

I dreamed that the floor of my home was covered with water, but the doorway was higher than the rest of the house, so I would have to push the water out splash by splash. As I began to push the water out, pieces of the brown rug began to rip off and come out with the water.

I dreamed that someone wanted me to show them how to install a fiberglass tub, just as I had done at my mother's house. I reluctantly agreed to show them, even though I didn't want to just as I reluctantly agree to certain things in the present with respect to my step-son, even though I don't want to.

I dreamed I was in a van that flipped over, leaving me face on the ground inside of the van, looking outward and wondering how I would get out of this mess before another vehicle crashed into the van in the middle of this busy intersection?

February 01, 2008

I Wished I Was Dead Again

Even when things are going well in my life in outward respects, still the fantasy of suicide is my first thought as I climb into bed each afternoon for a nap, and each night for three hours of sleep. And then I dream of my mother and our arguments.

I dreamed that I was looking for a place for myself in the world, fantasizing about calling people at random just before Christmas and asking for donations to "Eunice F." Hahaha . . . . I dreamed my mother told me that the school in which I was teaching - the same at which she was a professor - thought it better that I leave as soon as possible.

I dreamed my mother angrily demanded that I stop screaming at her when I got angry and throwing things around the house. I said to her, "You're screaming at me," which was an easier answer, since I could not agree to stop screaming at her and throwing things around the house.

I dreamed I had nowhere to live in a big town, so as I road through a neighborhood of beautiful homes I imagined asking some of the homeowners if they didn't have a room they'd like to rent. The homes, although immaculate, were on a steep hill, and I wondered if it would be possible to exit their driveways when the snow began to fall?

I dreamed of my brother . . .

During the day, I live partially in the present. At night, when I am asleep, I live mostly in the distant past. I dream in English, of English-speaking persons, although I haven't lived in an English-speaking country for over seven years. I dream of people past rather than present - of the worst conflicts and fears . . .

If I were dead, when I am dead, I hope I will stop dreaming, because my sleeping moments in life are worse than my waking moments by far. And yet I sleep a third of my days away, like a daily appointment with the torture doctor.

If I hung myself from the door frame, then I dreams would go away. If I constructed a large rectangular box with a huge blade at the end, I could crawl into the box while it stood upright, so that only my head protruded from the box, right where the blade would catch my neck as the box fell over and hit the floor.

Sometimes, I dream of suicide during the day as well. When I see enormous two-story tour buses speeding down the road, I imagine running and standing in from of them, being struck and dying. As I swim out to see at the beach, I am torn between fear of drowning and the desire to continue swimming until the shore is a distant memory.