“The sheer exhaustion she conveyed in the act of stirring her tea made it look like she was mixing cement.” ~ Martha Manning, psychotherapist (referring to her grandmother’s depression)
I don’t think about it much. Depression, that is. The moods come, and thankfully, they go. Except for the depression that hospitalized me. But that was years ago, long before I understood my own brain. For clinical depression there is now fairly good medication available. Other things help too, like understanding friends. Hopefully my experiences have wrought in me a deeper compassion for others. I hope it’s made a difference in my writing, too.
Last time I admitted depression, a friend said she just didn’t get it. I’m glad she’s never needed antidepressants. But something she said revealed a smidgeon of pride. “I just never give in to depression,” she said. “Guess I’ve never understood chronic victim mentality.” Ouch.
Well, much has been written on brain illness that would straighten out the least of this friend’s misconceptions, but some people would rather read the funnies. It’s useless to explain the function of neurons and neurotransmitters to people whose brain never falters. Note to self: Don’t look to misguided folks for understanding. It won’t happen.
Ironically, writing that ministers to me comes from those who have wrestled with darkness and come out on the other side. These writers speak to my heart. They’re compassionate, genuine, and not afraid to be transparent. They don’t shame people for the way they’re wired, nor for the way they’ve experienced life.
When I haven’t walked a mile in someone’s flip-flops, I really can’t afford to judge. So I treat people’s melancholia with care. When that black bile or brain-freeze descends on someone I know, I want to be the friend that God sends. I want to fan the flame of all His gifts, and love my friends in the most consistent ways I know how. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I just don’t get it,” and walk away.
Melancholy souls were given a gift. Because of misunderstandings we’ve suffered, we recognize a timely word spoken in season. We cherish it. We cling to it. We never hesitate to offer a word or kindness to another soul in need, and trust God will most ably speak through us.
But a final thought lingers. If compassion is putting ourselves in someone else’s flip-flops long enough to feel their pain, surely melancholia taught us how.
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on June 24, 2008 - 8:07 am
Ditto, and amen. Thank you.
on June 24, 2008 - 8:34 am
What a wonderful post! I agree that we need to remember that we don’t have all the answers and may not fully understand what others are going through! Reading this was very convicting and yet encouraging at the same time. Your words tend to have that effect on me! Thank you for sharing your heart!
on June 25, 2008 - 5:54 am
I don’t know if anyone can really understand a person suffering from depression unless they have suffered from it themselves Vicki. It’s a tormenting place to be. I can’t imagine what it must be like for someone who doesn’t have the Lord. Personally, I believe one of the biggest misconceptions where depression is concerned is that Christians don’t suffer from it. Yes, they do!
on July 2, 2008 - 5:53 pm
I accidentally landed here and enjoyed reading this post very much. I have been thinking about “melancholy” recently because, like you apparently, I have intervals of depression. The first person to mention this to me was my AP English teacher in high school (1970) who said, “Martha has a poetic soul; she has melancholy.” The fact was that my dad had MS and was in very bad shape and rapidly getting worse. My home life was OBJECTIVELY sad and difficult. I wasn’t melancholy; I was sad. I wrote a poem about my dad’s situation for my creative writing class — different teacher — and she wrote on it, “Write about what you know!” and gave me a D. 18 year olds are not supposed to know about nursing homes, death, urinals, etc etc etc all of which were part of my life.
Later, much later, 25 years later, when I had a full on crisis I learned about my brain and how life’s events and challenges wear away the little fingers that facilitate happiness and peace within the self. I know myself much better now; I am a happy person who suffers from bouts of depression. Perhaps you know what I mean. Depression has its own being, apart from life’s events and possibly even life’s objective realities. This is its disorienting power, the way it can pull the rug out from under.
I long resisted the idea that melancholy and the artistic temperament are related; I resisted the idea of there being an artistic temperament — but Kay Redfield Jamison’s book, Touched With Fire, put it clearly in front of me and showed me how to look at the pedigree of my own family.