I Think I'm Depressed

Sunday, 31 January 2010 16:45 Written by Lezlie Laws

I think I’m depressed.  Now this is not a label I take on easily.  All my life I have been a naturally buoyant person, quick to laugh, high in energy, positive, eager, curious.  And though I am prone to quiet periods of reflection, I have rarely, if ever, walked into the fog of depression.  But recent reading has led me to think I just might be depressed.

    I’m reading Jon Katz’s book Izzy and Lenore.  I love the way Katz writes about his experiences with his dogs on his farm in upstate New York.  Last month I read The Dogs of Bedlam Farm, and liked it so much that I will include in my Man’s Best Friend course next year.  In fact, liked it so much that I bought three more of his many books about his experiences with his dogs.  Izzy and Lenore is not as good as The Dogs of Bedlam Farm.  It’s not as cohesive structurally. Here, Katz splits his attention between the training of border collie Izzy to be a hospice worker and the introduction of a black lab puppy, Lenore, into the menagerie on his farm.  And then, he makes references to family problems that he never fully describes, to fears he doesn’t quite unravel, and to physical issues he seems unable to integrate into the narrative of this work.  So the English teacher in me is not so satisfied with this book as with the first one I read. 

     But the dog lover in me really liked this book.  His chapters describing how Izzy proved to be a genius at dealing with the dying are so touching, and very nicely written.  Those chapters alone make the book worthwhile.  And if I had been his editor, I would have urged him to allow the supporting chapters to address how these experiences with the dying were affecting his own growing sense of mortality as he faced his physical problems and diminishing capacity for taking care of the farm and its inhabitants.

    Midway trough the book, Katz includes a chapter called “Into the Shadows” which describes his bout with depression. In many ways, it’s a frustrating chapter because it’s so cryptic.  We get hints of family tragedy and of his own struggle with diabetes, his balancing of city life and rural life, his estrangement from his sister, but no details.  In fact, this chapter seems quite out of place in a book that is celebrating the joys of getting two new dogs and training them to do good work in the world.

    So, once again, the English teacher in me has quibbles with the writer Jon Katz.  In spite of that, the wobbly person I am these days was deeply appreciative of Katz’s description of his own process of receding into the shadows.  I was stunned to see myself in his descriptions of his shadow life:

moving slowly

sleeping fitfully

exhaustion

distraction

forgetfulness

weepiness

lack of focus

headaches

vaguely nauseous and dizzy

sluggishness

disinterest in projects  

As I read about his difficulty in handling his normally busy and happy life, I thought, ohmygod, this is exactly what I’m going through.  Maybe I’m depressed.

   And then, of course, the denial comes quickly.  The not wanting to see myself as a depressed person.  And the valiant attempts to disregard or even disprove the truth.  Like Katz, I have attempted to “soldier on” and dismiss what was becoming more and more apparent.

    I can say to myself, you have good reason to be slightly despondent, if not depressed.  You are healing from surgery.  You are regrouping after a wake-up call to mortality.  You are tired from lack of sleep.  You are aging in the normal ways.  You are re-adjusting yourself to a new role in life.  (I realize I am committing the same error I’ve criticized Katz of; details can be gleaned from previous posts.)  These things will cause a girl to lay low for a while.  And so I have—laid low.  I’ve retreated into my little cave to lick my wounds, to set aside my plans, to drop desire and sit for a while in the shadows.  Something is stirring.

   A few chapters after his essay on depression, Katz writes again of depression.  He quotes Joseph Campbell who said “we are called to the realm of adventure, exploration, and rebirth; we are called to new horizons.”  This alone was worth the price of the book.  For through the last two months, which have been very unnerving for me, I have felt a persistent nudging, if not a full out “calling.”  It’s a nudging toward a new way of being in my life, a willingness, an openness, and acceptance of what is.  It’s almost as if the physical issues I’ve faced have served merely to point me to a deeper misalignment in my life, a place to which I need to direct new energy. 

    A planner and a doer by nature, I’m not comfortable with uncertainty, but that’s where I’m called to be right now.  Be in the space of not knowing, my inner voice says.  Let that which wants to die go, and allow something new to fill the space.  Let it be, little border collie.  Take pleasure in these stories of a dog named Izzy whose silent companionship allowed people to be contemplative and exploratory, who allowed grief and fear and laughter to pour forth without judgment.  Take joy in a being who explains nothing, judges nothing, and offers affection, connection, and faithfulness to those willing to receive it.