...I still wear cashmere.
(You will pry those sweaters out of my cold, dead, introverted hands, thank you very much. :-) )
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Change your clothes, change your life
NB: This post is a bit more self-involved and navel-gazey than usual; you may wish to skip it for something with more substance. Thank you.
-----
I had a conversation with my dear friend Paul last Monday that helped crystallize quite a few things that had been floating in the brain soup. He writes an amazing blog about fashion throughout history and how our sartorial choices affect, and are affected by, our lives—sociological, biological, and psychological factors all come into play, and are put under the microscope. It’s a fantastic blog, and if you are at all interested in how we choose to show ourselves to the world (and why), then this is the place for you.
Here’s a good starting point—it just so happens to be HIS brief exploration of the ideas behind that conversation:
http://attiresmind.blogspot.com/2014/08/inward-becomes-outward.html?spref=fb
We had been discussing how our choices of attire change with the tides of life—how the inner becomes the outer; for instance, when my marriage ended in 2003, my wardrobe took a radical shift from black into technicolor—I AM HERE! it seemed to say. Bright clear tones such as apple green, aqua and turquoise blue, and yellows, dominated. That phase was short lived, however: as I became a little more settled, I shifted into earth tones—rusts, greens, tans, and browns were my go-to color choices. Too, I chose to wear short tailored skirts, heels, and boots that showed off my legs, pretty silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, dresses, and, as much as possible, a retro style. This was my wardrobe for over ten years.
Then, around mid-2012, another shift began. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, just that my choices began moving back into a monochromatic pattern…gray, gray, gray. (OK, maybe a little taupe and black in there.) I’ve been living in jeans (or yoga pants at home) or a maxi-length black skirt I picked up on the cheap, paired with t-shirts or loose, simple cotton tops, again in softer tones of gray, light blue, or white.
I wasn’t even fully aware a shift had occurred until around the time I was packing for New York; NOTHING that was going into the suitcase was an earth tone. No skirts (save the black maxi). No tights, no heels. None of my usual go-tos.
What—? I thought. Black? Gray? How boring. How depressing.
The real wake-up call (and the event that triggered my conversation with Paul) came a week ago: I was in the grocery store in my neighborhood picking up a bottle of wine for a TV night in with a friend. After much deliberation, I’d put on an outfit I’d worn many times before: a light cotton shift in olive green, brown leggings, brown boots, tan cashmere cardigan, and a rust/olive/brown/wine-colored scarf. I’d never felt uncomfortable in this outfit before. But last Saturday, it felt excruciatingly WRONG. Part of it, I now know, had to do with my feelings of not belonging in SF any longer, the pull to find ‘home’, wherever that may be; but, as I wandered the aisles of the Good Life, among all the young, toned, shorts-and-jeans-clad hipsters, I felt like a Yeti.
(I will readily concede that it probably didn’t help that I hadn’t shaved in a week.)
I might as well have been wearing a Lord of the Rings costume, I felt so out of place.
I looked at my closet the next day and realized—none of it FIT anymore. Literally and figuratively. Thanks to perimenopause (and, probably, hypothyroid), ten extra pounds have crept on in the past year, resisting all efforts of extirpation. My clothing, while technically still able to be donned, doesn’t look or feel the same on me as it used to. How much of that is physical, how much psychological? I couldn’t tell you. I think it's very interesting to ask these questions, though, and to keep asking them as our lives shift and change.
Still, my weight shouldn’t have an effect on the choice of color or style. Right?
In our conversation, though, once we connected the dots of my current life, it all made sense.
My shift toward more comfortable, loose, less dramatic clothing started when I made a conscious decision to quit singing full time (a very dramatic, outwardly-oriented career) and become a writer (a solitary, inward-focusing career). As my friend put it, it became less about “Look at ME!” as I became much more home-oriented, and more a reflection of my true—read: introverted—personality. My clothing choices became simpler, more streamlined, and, yes, less costume-y, as my life did.
Too, all the clothing I’m reaching for are clothes that pack well—a sign of my subconscious need to travel light, anticipating my trips to Ojai, New York, and (later this year) Europe, as well as my dream of eventually relocating to Europe permanently.
And, instead of schlubby, I am told, my current look is not boring or depressing, but “elegantly simple”.*
That’s my (current) sartorial story….and I’m sticking with it.
….for now, at least.
RM
*OK, so it was my therapist who told me that, and yes, I PAY her to say nice things to me, so I will take it with a grain of salt.
-----
I had a conversation with my dear friend Paul last Monday that helped crystallize quite a few things that had been floating in the brain soup. He writes an amazing blog about fashion throughout history and how our sartorial choices affect, and are affected by, our lives—sociological, biological, and psychological factors all come into play, and are put under the microscope. It’s a fantastic blog, and if you are at all interested in how we choose to show ourselves to the world (and why), then this is the place for you.
Here’s a good starting point—it just so happens to be HIS brief exploration of the ideas behind that conversation:
http://attiresmind.blogspot.com/2014/08/inward-becomes-outward.html?spref=fb
We had been discussing how our choices of attire change with the tides of life—how the inner becomes the outer; for instance, when my marriage ended in 2003, my wardrobe took a radical shift from black into technicolor—I AM HERE! it seemed to say. Bright clear tones such as apple green, aqua and turquoise blue, and yellows, dominated. That phase was short lived, however: as I became a little more settled, I shifted into earth tones—rusts, greens, tans, and browns were my go-to color choices. Too, I chose to wear short tailored skirts, heels, and boots that showed off my legs, pretty silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, dresses, and, as much as possible, a retro style. This was my wardrobe for over ten years.
Then, around mid-2012, another shift began. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, just that my choices began moving back into a monochromatic pattern…gray, gray, gray. (OK, maybe a little taupe and black in there.) I’ve been living in jeans (or yoga pants at home) or a maxi-length black skirt I picked up on the cheap, paired with t-shirts or loose, simple cotton tops, again in softer tones of gray, light blue, or white.
I wasn’t even fully aware a shift had occurred until around the time I was packing for New York; NOTHING that was going into the suitcase was an earth tone. No skirts (save the black maxi). No tights, no heels. None of my usual go-tos.
What—? I thought. Black? Gray? How boring. How depressing.
The real wake-up call (and the event that triggered my conversation with Paul) came a week ago: I was in the grocery store in my neighborhood picking up a bottle of wine for a TV night in with a friend. After much deliberation, I’d put on an outfit I’d worn many times before: a light cotton shift in olive green, brown leggings, brown boots, tan cashmere cardigan, and a rust/olive/brown/wine-colored scarf. I’d never felt uncomfortable in this outfit before. But last Saturday, it felt excruciatingly WRONG. Part of it, I now know, had to do with my feelings of not belonging in SF any longer, the pull to find ‘home’, wherever that may be; but, as I wandered the aisles of the Good Life, among all the young, toned, shorts-and-jeans-clad hipsters, I felt like a Yeti.
(I will readily concede that it probably didn’t help that I hadn’t shaved in a week.)
I might as well have been wearing a Lord of the Rings costume, I felt so out of place.
I looked at my closet the next day and realized—none of it FIT anymore. Literally and figuratively. Thanks to perimenopause (and, probably, hypothyroid), ten extra pounds have crept on in the past year, resisting all efforts of extirpation. My clothing, while technically still able to be donned, doesn’t look or feel the same on me as it used to. How much of that is physical, how much psychological? I couldn’t tell you. I think it's very interesting to ask these questions, though, and to keep asking them as our lives shift and change.
Still, my weight shouldn’t have an effect on the choice of color or style. Right?
In our conversation, though, once we connected the dots of my current life, it all made sense.
My shift toward more comfortable, loose, less dramatic clothing started when I made a conscious decision to quit singing full time (a very dramatic, outwardly-oriented career) and become a writer (a solitary, inward-focusing career). As my friend put it, it became less about “Look at ME!” as I became much more home-oriented, and more a reflection of my true—read: introverted—personality. My clothing choices became simpler, more streamlined, and, yes, less costume-y, as my life did.
Too, all the clothing I’m reaching for are clothes that pack well—a sign of my subconscious need to travel light, anticipating my trips to Ojai, New York, and (later this year) Europe, as well as my dream of eventually relocating to Europe permanently.
And, instead of schlubby, I am told, my current look is not boring or depressing, but “elegantly simple”.*
That’s my (current) sartorial story….and I’m sticking with it.
….for now, at least.
RM
*OK, so it was my therapist who told me that, and yes, I PAY her to say nice things to me, so I will take it with a grain of salt.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
A Few More Thoughts
....mainly, the ones that didn't fit in yesterday's edition of "Random S*** I Thought Of That Might Actually Make Sense With More Caffeine (read: Editing)".
Yesterday, among my other ramblings, I mentioned that we are our thoughts. I genuinely believe that. When we are in fear, our thoughts tend, naturally, toward self-protection, but in a very old, reptilian-brain kind of way. In that state, we are reactive--shooting first, and then asking the questions.
It has been scientifically proven* that in such a fearful state, our capacity for clear, critical thinking is compromised--we are much more malleable and open to being controlled by others. We also are more quick to judge, to think of people who are "Not-Us", especially those outside our immediate circle, as The Other--as separate from us--and, therefore, a potential threat, a dehumanizing move that makes it easier to justify everything from cutting someone off in traffic to genocide. It is exactly that fear-based thinking--especially when reinforced by outside sources such as our families, our religious communities, our government, or the media--that creates racism, religious fanaticism, and is at the root of the justification for just about every war.
I have come to believe that we live in a culture that profits from our fear--from keeping us in a persistent state of low anxiety. We can never have enough, do enough, BE enough, unless we buy this product, have this surgical procedure, believe in this god, have this job or this partner or this much money (and all we need do is look at the example of Robin Williams--or any other celebrity suicide--to see how very little "having it all" means). We are trained from a very early age to believe that contentment is based on external--usually material--factors. So much of what we see in the media reinforces this negative narrative of our world until we internalize it, and it becomes part of our personal narrative. The fear of "Not-Enough" has created a society full of needy, fearful, lonely people who have been convinced that we are somehow lacking--is it any wonder so many people are depressed? In isolating ourselves we have also created a culture where we have been told that the individual is the highest unit of the social order--that self-sufficiency is a virtue, and that lack of empathy is a desirable trait, necessary for material success (i.e., in the workforce). Admitting our need for support from others is not praised, but derided. Empathy is dismissed as a weakness.
The truth is, empathy is an evolutionary necessity if we are to survive as a species. In times when food and other resources were scarce, we survived because we helped each other; because we created units--families, cities, states, communities--to support each other. Alone, we are vulnerable.
In a society where keeping us malleable by keeping us fearful and depressed is the status quo, choosing to be happy, to use our critical thinking capabilities instead of merely reacting, is a revolutionary act. Mental health is a political issue. We must choose to work toward knowing ourselves so that we can be better to ourselves and each other, so that we all can grow as a species.
Yes, we are fanged, shit-flinging apes: but we are also hard-wired to move beyond that, to evolve, to grow. Empathy is a muscle--one that grows with use. Strength doesn't come from hardening against the world, but in softening to it; not fighting, but accepting, what is, from seeing--and acting--clearly, without fear. From remembering that we are all in this together--as our own founding fathers said, "United We Stand; Divided We Fall."
Let's be kinder to each other. Because our survival depends on it.
RM
*=again, I am happy to provide sources upon request.
Yesterday, among my other ramblings, I mentioned that we are our thoughts. I genuinely believe that. When we are in fear, our thoughts tend, naturally, toward self-protection, but in a very old, reptilian-brain kind of way. In that state, we are reactive--shooting first, and then asking the questions.
It has been scientifically proven* that in such a fearful state, our capacity for clear, critical thinking is compromised--we are much more malleable and open to being controlled by others. We also are more quick to judge, to think of people who are "Not-Us", especially those outside our immediate circle, as The Other--as separate from us--and, therefore, a potential threat, a dehumanizing move that makes it easier to justify everything from cutting someone off in traffic to genocide. It is exactly that fear-based thinking--especially when reinforced by outside sources such as our families, our religious communities, our government, or the media--that creates racism, religious fanaticism, and is at the root of the justification for just about every war.
I have come to believe that we live in a culture that profits from our fear--from keeping us in a persistent state of low anxiety. We can never have enough, do enough, BE enough, unless we buy this product, have this surgical procedure, believe in this god, have this job or this partner or this much money (and all we need do is look at the example of Robin Williams--or any other celebrity suicide--to see how very little "having it all" means). We are trained from a very early age to believe that contentment is based on external--usually material--factors. So much of what we see in the media reinforces this negative narrative of our world until we internalize it, and it becomes part of our personal narrative. The fear of "Not-Enough" has created a society full of needy, fearful, lonely people who have been convinced that we are somehow lacking--is it any wonder so many people are depressed? In isolating ourselves we have also created a culture where we have been told that the individual is the highest unit of the social order--that self-sufficiency is a virtue, and that lack of empathy is a desirable trait, necessary for material success (i.e., in the workforce). Admitting our need for support from others is not praised, but derided. Empathy is dismissed as a weakness.
The truth is, empathy is an evolutionary necessity if we are to survive as a species. In times when food and other resources were scarce, we survived because we helped each other; because we created units--families, cities, states, communities--to support each other. Alone, we are vulnerable.
In a society where keeping us malleable by keeping us fearful and depressed is the status quo, choosing to be happy, to use our critical thinking capabilities instead of merely reacting, is a revolutionary act. Mental health is a political issue. We must choose to work toward knowing ourselves so that we can be better to ourselves and each other, so that we all can grow as a species.
Yes, we are fanged, shit-flinging apes: but we are also hard-wired to move beyond that, to evolve, to grow. Empathy is a muscle--one that grows with use. Strength doesn't come from hardening against the world, but in softening to it; not fighting, but accepting, what is, from seeing--and acting--clearly, without fear. From remembering that we are all in this together--as our own founding fathers said, "United We Stand; Divided We Fall."
Let's be kinder to each other. Because our survival depends on it.
RM
*=again, I am happy to provide sources upon request.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A Few Thoughts About Depression
I feel compelled to put down a few thoughts on a subject about which I like to think I know a bit, having lived with depression much of my adult life. I don't pretend to be an expert, or even particularly knowledgeable beyond my own experience and observations, so please take my ramblings in the loving spirit in which they are offered, and as a jumping-off point for your own explorations.
We lost a great artist, Robin Williams, two days ago. It hit my community particularly hard because we considered him one of ours--a local, a performer, a mensch; my Facebook feed is thick with personal stories from friends and colleagues whose lives he touched with a short conversation, a wave, a kindness. By all reports, he was a truly huge-hearted, generous soul, and the world is a bit less sparkly, a bit less funny and whimsical and wonderful, for his absence.
The reason I'm getting off my lazy butt to post in here is that, in addition to the heartening outpouring of love and support for him and for his family, his death has brought out some of the worst in humanity: I just read about how some trolls have sent his daughter awful pictures and comments on her Twitter page, forcing her to leave the site for good. (One friend made the disgusted comment that "We are a species of fanged, shit-flinging apes." It's hard to dispute his contention in the face of such horrific indifference to someone's suffering, such deliberate cruelty to a total stranger.)
Many people have trotted out the old "How could he be so SELFISH to do this to his family/friends/us?" horse shit, including supposed journalists who ought to know better (Fox, I'm looking at you: for shame. And, Rush Limbaugh, for your colossally assholier-than-thou statements that it must have something to do with his politics; if I didn't already want to cock-punch you in your tiny, wizened little winkie before, I definitely do now.
...repeatedly.
...with a ball-peen hammer).
Along similar, but more well-meaning lines, several people have also said "Why couldn't he have reached out to those who loved him?"
OK. Here's the deal.
As has been said many times before (and by much better people than I):
DEPRESSION LIES.
Depression is a devious little fucker. It creates a self-narrative based on fear and self-loathing that is so pervasive, such a repetitive tape loop inside your head (I believe Anne Lamott calls it "Radio K-FKD"), it becomes difficult to hear anything else about yourself--especially anything positive. If you're depressed, compliments are suspect; criticisms are automatically assumed to be truthful, and take on overwhelming power. One of the worst things about depression and the narrative that goes along with it, is that it serves to isolate you emotionally: you feel completely alone. It's just you against that narrative, and it's relentless and knows all your weak points. It knows exactly how, and when, to kneecap you, and will take every opportunity to do just that.
Robin Williams was very likely aware just how much he was loved, and it just as likely wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
David Foster Wallace, another brilliant artist we lost to depression, put it beautifully:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Those flames are your self-narrative, licking at your feet, telling you you're weak and worthless, you're never good enough or thin enough or tall enough or smart enough or (insert yours here) enough. You could be a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced teenager, flipping burgers in your first job at Burger King, or Robin Williams. The narrative is the same. And when it's a more viable choice to jump out that window than to tolerate the flames one more day, it becomes deadly. I'm betting that every single person reading this who has depression is nodding their head right now in recognition, because they've felt the heat from those flames on their back. I know I have.
If I may make a couple of points about depression, based on both personal experience and extensive reading on the subject*:
1. We are our thoughts. We create ourselves by what we think about ourselves. Every self-thought is part of a neural patterning process that gets reinforced with each subsequent thought until we have created a narrative about ourselves.
In fact, there is a whole subset of psychology--cognitive therapy--that deals exclusively with identifying and changing those self-narratives.
2. Depression is a chemical imbalance, a neurological dis-ease. It creates a different narrative for us, one based in fear and anxiety. Fear is the grindstone that wears down our sense of worth and purpose until we continually doubt ourselves..."What's the use? Why bother?" Those negative thoughts become self-reinforcing, part of our automatic response system. And when we've ground that neural groove, we call it depression.
3. We don't actually know a whole heck of a lot about how our brain works. We're doing the best we can but psychology is only getting up to speed in terms of medical science; a lot of ideas that are accepted as reality now were taken about as seriously by the mainstream medical community as astrology and phrenology only forty to fifty years ago. And if the research is playing catch-up, cultural assumptions about mental health are even further behind. Look how many people still hold the perception that depression is merely mind over matter, instead of an actual physical disease. Would you say "Just get over it!" to a cancer sufferer? Of course not. (Not if you have a shred of humanity left, you fanged, shit-flinging ape, you.) So why is it more acceptable to say it to a depression sufferer? Simple. It's our cultural assumptions about what depression is and how it works.
4. I know I'm tap-dancing on a mine field with this one, but I'd like to address the "Why didn't he reach out to his family/friends?" question. It bugs me that there is an assumption that if we lean on our friends and family, that will be enough. I hasten to add that I didn't say we SHOULDN'T reach out to them, or that Williams' tribe haven't been supportive and helpful--but, please remember, not everyone has supportive, loving, aware friends and family: many of us have gotten more harm than help from people closest to us. Also, no matter how well-meaning, most peoples' friends and family aren't trained in dealing with mental health issues. Long-term guidance really does make a difference, and getting that guidance from someone with professional training (MFTs, clergy, psychotherapists, etc.) is much more efficacious than simply talking it out once, over cocktails, with your bestie--although there ain't nothing wrong with cocktails with your bestie as therapy. (In fact, I feel a prescription from one's doctor for regular cocktails with one's bestie is a GREAT idea.)
I have so much more to say on this subject, but I'm going to stop here for now.
Please, if you are feeling depressed, reach out. There are so many people ready to help.
More soon.
RM
*=and yes, I'd be happy to provide a reading list if you'd like.
We lost a great artist, Robin Williams, two days ago. It hit my community particularly hard because we considered him one of ours--a local, a performer, a mensch; my Facebook feed is thick with personal stories from friends and colleagues whose lives he touched with a short conversation, a wave, a kindness. By all reports, he was a truly huge-hearted, generous soul, and the world is a bit less sparkly, a bit less funny and whimsical and wonderful, for his absence.
The reason I'm getting off my lazy butt to post in here is that, in addition to the heartening outpouring of love and support for him and for his family, his death has brought out some of the worst in humanity: I just read about how some trolls have sent his daughter awful pictures and comments on her Twitter page, forcing her to leave the site for good. (One friend made the disgusted comment that "We are a species of fanged, shit-flinging apes." It's hard to dispute his contention in the face of such horrific indifference to someone's suffering, such deliberate cruelty to a total stranger.)
Many people have trotted out the old "How could he be so SELFISH to do this to his family/friends/us?" horse shit, including supposed journalists who ought to know better (Fox, I'm looking at you: for shame. And, Rush Limbaugh, for your colossally assholier-than-thou statements that it must have something to do with his politics; if I didn't already want to cock-punch you in your tiny, wizened little winkie before, I definitely do now.
...repeatedly.
...with a ball-peen hammer).
Along similar, but more well-meaning lines, several people have also said "Why couldn't he have reached out to those who loved him?"
OK. Here's the deal.
As has been said many times before (and by much better people than I):
DEPRESSION LIES.
Depression is a devious little fucker. It creates a self-narrative based on fear and self-loathing that is so pervasive, such a repetitive tape loop inside your head (I believe Anne Lamott calls it "Radio K-FKD"), it becomes difficult to hear anything else about yourself--especially anything positive. If you're depressed, compliments are suspect; criticisms are automatically assumed to be truthful, and take on overwhelming power. One of the worst things about depression and the narrative that goes along with it, is that it serves to isolate you emotionally: you feel completely alone. It's just you against that narrative, and it's relentless and knows all your weak points. It knows exactly how, and when, to kneecap you, and will take every opportunity to do just that.
Robin Williams was very likely aware just how much he was loved, and it just as likely wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
David Foster Wallace, another brilliant artist we lost to depression, put it beautifully:
“The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.”
Those flames are your self-narrative, licking at your feet, telling you you're weak and worthless, you're never good enough or thin enough or tall enough or smart enough or (insert yours here) enough. You could be a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced teenager, flipping burgers in your first job at Burger King, or Robin Williams. The narrative is the same. And when it's a more viable choice to jump out that window than to tolerate the flames one more day, it becomes deadly. I'm betting that every single person reading this who has depression is nodding their head right now in recognition, because they've felt the heat from those flames on their back. I know I have.
If I may make a couple of points about depression, based on both personal experience and extensive reading on the subject*:
1. We are our thoughts. We create ourselves by what we think about ourselves. Every self-thought is part of a neural patterning process that gets reinforced with each subsequent thought until we have created a narrative about ourselves.
In fact, there is a whole subset of psychology--cognitive therapy--that deals exclusively with identifying and changing those self-narratives.
2. Depression is a chemical imbalance, a neurological dis-ease. It creates a different narrative for us, one based in fear and anxiety. Fear is the grindstone that wears down our sense of worth and purpose until we continually doubt ourselves..."What's the use? Why bother?" Those negative thoughts become self-reinforcing, part of our automatic response system. And when we've ground that neural groove, we call it depression.
3. We don't actually know a whole heck of a lot about how our brain works. We're doing the best we can but psychology is only getting up to speed in terms of medical science; a lot of ideas that are accepted as reality now were taken about as seriously by the mainstream medical community as astrology and phrenology only forty to fifty years ago. And if the research is playing catch-up, cultural assumptions about mental health are even further behind. Look how many people still hold the perception that depression is merely mind over matter, instead of an actual physical disease. Would you say "Just get over it!" to a cancer sufferer? Of course not. (Not if you have a shred of humanity left, you fanged, shit-flinging ape, you.) So why is it more acceptable to say it to a depression sufferer? Simple. It's our cultural assumptions about what depression is and how it works.
4. I know I'm tap-dancing on a mine field with this one, but I'd like to address the "Why didn't he reach out to his family/friends?" question. It bugs me that there is an assumption that if we lean on our friends and family, that will be enough. I hasten to add that I didn't say we SHOULDN'T reach out to them, or that Williams' tribe haven't been supportive and helpful--but, please remember, not everyone has supportive, loving, aware friends and family: many of us have gotten more harm than help from people closest to us. Also, no matter how well-meaning, most peoples' friends and family aren't trained in dealing with mental health issues. Long-term guidance really does make a difference, and getting that guidance from someone with professional training (MFTs, clergy, psychotherapists, etc.) is much more efficacious than simply talking it out once, over cocktails, with your bestie--although there ain't nothing wrong with cocktails with your bestie as therapy. (In fact, I feel a prescription from one's doctor for regular cocktails with one's bestie is a GREAT idea.)
I have so much more to say on this subject, but I'm going to stop here for now.
Please, if you are feeling depressed, reach out. There are so many people ready to help.
More soon.
RM
*=and yes, I'd be happy to provide a reading list if you'd like.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)