Collect the Whole Set
The talking head on my local news just announced that "millions of people get no relief from depression through either therapy or medication." But have no fear--corporate solutions are here! Apparently there's some new implant that can "solve" our "depression." Film at 11.
I'm really confused about all this, and I am really worried when I start agreeing with Tom Cruise for reasons that don't even need enunciating, but it does seem to me that the whole "chemical imbalance/depression" phenomenon that has overtaken our airwaves in the last decade might just be one of the marvels of modern marketing.
I say this as someone whose brother died after several decades of living with schizophrenia. I say this as someone whose beloved niece is under observation at a hospital following a psychotic episode on a Greyhound bus. So I am hardly unaware of the very real horrors that occur when we lose our ability to function in reality. I don't doubt at all that organic pathology of the brain occurs, nor do I doubt that this is what has caused my family members--and all of us who love them--such sadness and despair.
But depression, well, that's another goat entirely. Ever since the craven deregulation of commercial airtime permitted pharmaceutical companies to market directly to us, the unsuspecting consumers, we've witnessed--go figure--an explosion in prescription use as people flood into their doctors demanding pills to "fix" their unhappiness. The best minds in our country dedicate themselves to manipulating us. It works. Apparently lots of folks relate to that sad little circular cartoon head.
And the “news” about the implant, well that obviously wasn’t news at all. It was just a commercial plant too, one prepackaged by somebody who wants to sell it to people and delivered to channel 9 who then passes it off as reporting instead of the advertisement that it is.
So what, you may ask? So what if people find that there's a medical solution to their problems, that they can live happier and more fulfilled existences through chemicals? Well, bully, I say, that sounds just fine to me too. There's just one problem. It's happening in America, the greediest nation in the history of the human race, a country where the solution to everything--even the problems brought on by materialism--is to buy more stuff.
Bah. Humbug.
Yesterday I spent some time face down drooling in the grass at the cemetery where my mother and father are buried. I'd not yet seen the new headstone which combines their two names. And since I am still grieving pop's death, a grief exacerbated by the sale of my childhood home (I hear doors slamming forever....forever.....), I knew I needed to make a trek to that most painful of places, to feel those most painful of feelings.
Earlier in the day, though I had told friends I was on my way to Oak Park cemetery to do this grieving, I drove home and ate a second lunch that I was not hungry for and then crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head. So there I am on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, after a full and restful night sleep, isolating myself in a darkened bedroom, stuffed, miserable and suffering.
Depression? You bet.
But I didn't need a pill. I needed to go and confront the horror of loss and change, one more time. And because I refuse--REFUSE--to accept the advice of a bunch of salesman who don't give one rat's ass about my well being and only want to drug me so they can buy enormous soulless megalomansions in which to raise miserable over-privileged anxious neglected children--I threw off the covers, got out of bed, pulled on some pants, and pointed my car towards Claremont.
Yes, it was hard. Yes, it took courage. No, maybe everyone can't do this. But I am nothing special, just another human being crossing the planet, looking for solace. Once in the car I felt a sinking feeling, hating to face the chore, and then I remembered I didn't have to do this alone. I called a loving older mentor on the way, leaving three voicemails detailing my various fears and hopes, telling the truth as I could see it at the moment.
Once there I did what I always do: looked at the name--now names--on the stone and let that shock of recognition melt the ice around my heart, remove the lid on those stuffed feelings. The tears come when I am there at the grave and I let them, sometimes putting down my yoga mat so I can wallow at my leisure, communing with the dead.
If I took pills to keep my emotions in check I would not be able to find the release that I do when I grieve. Period. So instead of taking the easy way out, and living a hard life, I take the hard way out, and live an easy life.
Afterwards, my spirit soared as it always does following this cleansing. I knew I was taking excellent care of myself, which my parents would of course want. I knew I was living life on life's terms, not on my own as I used to do, back when I believed the lie of my omnipotence and suffered daily defeat at my failure to change the world to suit myself. I knew my grief honored those two people who wanted the best for their family, who did their best, just as I knew that I myself was still on the planet, alive and well, deserving to connect fully with its magic and mystery. I’m not dead yet. They are.
As I left the cemetery I decided to go to the mall. I needed a new pair of sunglasses but have been hesitant to shop for them as I have pretty much ceased to buy anything except the barest of necessities, loving--LOVING--the freedom that this rejection of materialism has, well, "bought" me. But I faced the fact that sunglasses are a necessity in sunny Southern California and so my only remaining question was where to make the purchase.
In the past I had often bought expensive designer frames, the latest ones a Vivienne Westwood pair purchased in South Kensington, London. They weren't cheap. This time I knew the last thing I need on earth is expensive glasses. It's all a lie, this promise of satisfaction from external possessions. As one of my wise friends says, the shine wears off in a week. And, she adds, there’s no u-haul behind a hearse.
Still I didn't want frames so weak they'd break in a month, so I decided to head to Macy's, thinking perhaps I could get a decent pair that weren't needlessly fabulous. It had been many months since I had walked into a mall, and I was somewhat stunned by the proliferation of stuff. It was everywhere, tons of it. Who buys all of this, I wondered. Who needs all of this? Where does it come from? Where does it go?
Soon I spotted the sunglass rounders, tons of them, side by side, lined up like sentries in front of a fort. Near this magnificent power display was a small shelf with a few lonely pairs, the funky sale castoffs no one wants. I walked up to it, grabbed a pair, put them on my head, took them off, turned around to the salesgirl, and said "I'll take these." Elapsed time was probably 45 seconds. When they rang up at $12, I threw my head back and laughed. For once acquiring a material possession took the time and resources appropriate to its importance in my life.
Next, I thought, get me the hell out of here. The insidious voices of greed and vanity began whispering in my ear. I was starting to notice all of the cute new this and thats, notice myself in the hundreds of mirrors, notice all of the people shopping. If it's ok for them to shop, why shouldn't I?
There's a simple answer to this. Because I want a rich and meaningful existence. This means I need to go the graveyard, not the mall. This means I need to walk through what I am feeling, not medicate it. This means I need to define success in spiritual terms, not material ones.
So you think you might be depressed? Dr. Diana prescribes skipping the mall and making a trip to the cemetery. And after hundreds of cumulative hours of grieving losses real and imagined, huge and tiny, ancient and fresh, if you still feel unhappy, well, I hear there’s this new implant they’re making.