Catharsis

Anti-depressants helped take the edge off during the divorce. The adjunct prescription for sleeping pills was suggested by my doctor, from whom sympathy, upon hearing my story, literally oozed. It was what I needed at the time.

Not a big fan of sleep, I never finished the first bottle of sleeping pills, and, given the current reports of drug-supported, sleep-walking drivers, I am grateful.

The anti-depressant, however, became a mainstay. During the euphoric period, which lasted several months, I bought a car, quit my job, applied to college, and moved back to Atlanta. I engineered, for myself and my children, a new start.

And, we made it work. I am now employed by a good company, making a good living that supports a nice lifestyle in a bustling metropolis filled with opportunity. Current economic challenges aside, my older children are thriving in their new capacity as masters of their own destiny.

I met a man here, whose capacity to embrace my family did more to ease his way into my heart than flowers or pretty words. We raise my youngest son together, and Roger relishes the experience as though he was born to it. Shane attends the best public schools available and participates, successfully, in sports programs, year-round.

Several months ago, as I reflected upon our successes, I realized the folly of a person in my position ingesting mood-altering chemicals. It didn’t appear as an epiphany. It wasn’t an “Ah-hah” moment. It was, simply, a decision.

Unwilling to work without a net, I refilled my prescription a final time, tucking the unopened envelope into a drawer, where it remains.

And, I’ve learned a lot.

The first lesson came quickly, within weeks of my “sobriety”. While talking with a friend on the telephone, I heard joy in my laughter, and a lightness in my voice. Unshed tears sat close, in the corners of my ears, ready to flow at the first sign of poignancy. Babies, in my absence, had, somehow, grown sweeter, and seniors more enjoyable. I realized that while I hadn’t felt much pain for many years, neither had I appreciated wonder, small wonders; a frolicking puppy, a burgeoning tulip, a majestic sunset, a single word, chosen for its capacity to reach my heart.

Of course, the day did come when even my newfound joy wasn’t enough to warm the cockles of my heart. Hours usually pass before I awaken to the feeling. The day dawns, like any other day, and I go about my routine, until I notice my plodding footfalls, my listless speech, and bland affect. A look inside reveals murky darkness. Early on, the view alarmed me, setting in motion a mental slide-show, in hopes of discerning a cause; an event, a person, an unpleasant task, a caustic conversation, a disturbing memory. Failure, on most occasions, to uncover a culprit, qued-up a series of lectures I have received over the years, heralding the advances of modern medicine and my obligation to partake of its offerings. These practitioners pass around the word “organic” as though it were a virtual “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. The words mesmerize while soothing, so that the listener never even notices the acrid pill placed upon the tongue.

Organic depression can be caused by a disease process wherein key areas of the central nervous system are affected. The aforementioned doctor felt I suffer from one of these diseases, prompting his prescription. My own research supports his theory. But, I also know this; everyone has “bad” days, every one of us, even the most positive among us. I’m even willing to venture a guess that such notable positive thinkers as Marianne Williamson, Eckhart Tolle, and even Norman Vincent Peale, himself, have had a “bad” day. But, they get through it. They recognize it, they accept it, and they get through it, because, eventually, a new day dawns.

The key, for me, is to channel my feelings. I enjoy many mind-freeing activities. I love music. I do needlework while watching football. My garage is decorated by several unfinished paintings. A partially completed jigsaw puzzle fills a table in my office. I’ve clocked hundreds of miles on foot. But, my most recent revelation comes in realizing the blessing offered by the catharsis of writing.

Last week wasn’t easy. My son-in-law lost his job, and a friend, whose strength I had come to rely upon, melted into his clay feet. Life went on. I woke every day, followed my routine, and recognized my state of mind, hoping tomorrow would be better. It wasn’t.

A couple of mornings ago, I sat down to write, and has been the case, so often lately, found myself dry. But, I wrote anyway. The completed work wasn’t landmark. I hadn’t said anything important. There were no pithy phrases, or carefully concocted sentences. But, as I applied the last period to the last sentence, I smiled. A feeling of relief washed over me, as I realized a sliver of light had pierced my soul. I had discovered a new drug.

The bad days really suck. The good days make it worth it.

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