The Sadness Leak

I go back and forth regarding how my brain relates to the world. I am never sure how to refer to its relationship to the surroundings. I have tried on "mental illness", but that feels inaccurate, stigmatizing, and not wide enough. I have played with "empath", but that has too much of a cringe factor by association with those who actually refer to themselves as such. I have flirted with "gifted", but is it a gift, really? (And again, cringe.) Besides, gifts aren't supposed to turn on you, last I checked. 

And yet at times, I can actually describe my relationship to the world in all of these ways, and more. I think this is because there is not just one way to talk about it (it's not one thing or another), and we struggle to define things that are not one thing or another, don't we?

What the fuck am I going on about, you might be asking yourself? 

What I am going on about is the acknowledgement that I am a sad person. I hate writing that because it feels so pathetic, but I intend it to only be descriptive, and not a plea for sympathy. My sadness is something I have written around many times, but rarely about. In this attempt, let me clarify that I am not trying to not be sad, because I don't think that is possible without losing everything else; rather I hope to improve how I live with it, while inviting some understanding from readers. Currently, regarding how I live with it, well, I don't always do so well. 

***

One night a few weeks ago, I went with my husband and a dear friend to see a ridiculous, totally forgettable, yet thoroughly entertaining film at a popular mall. Things went off the rails for me early on, but I want to highlight just one incident to illustrate how sadness grips me at times. At home, I pre-ordered a large popcorn and medium drink so that we would not have to wait in line at the concession stand at the theater. I was relieved to see my order ready when I arrived, bypassing those who were standing in line to order, and feeling a bit proud of myself in the process.

While my friend went to sit down, I waited for my husband to come out of the restroom. I stood over near the butter and napkin dispenser, holding onto a thin cardboard box that, with surprising efficiency, held my large bucket of popcorn, as well as an empty medium drink cup, with straw, waiting for our selection. The drink was for my husband, and I needed him to make his choice at the beverage dispenser. But he was taking longer in the restroom than I had anticipated, and I suddenly felt very aware of standing alone, with my thin but efficient cardboard holder box, popcorn bucket, and empty drink cup, among dozens of other theatergoers not at all aware of me. 

Here is what my brain did with this moment. 

I started thinking of all that was wrong right then: my impatience while waiting for my husband; upset that he had more "business" to do than anticipated; my feeling invisible among the dozens of other moviegoers; a sense that this simple enjoyable activity was an example of just "plugging in" to the summer's entertainment as a way to feel good for a couple of hours; and my judgement of all that--including the guilt I felt for feeling any of this instead of just fucking relaxing like a normal person would. I can barely write this because it sounds so ludicrous. 

The sadness is what shows up in the aftermath. 

When it arrives, as commentary on the ridiculousness of my thoughts, it pulls me down, and I don't feel like I have a choice. It takes me to where the "bad people" should live, you know, those who are impatient, invisible to others, unable to relax, unwilling to enjoy a simple evening without finding something wrong. The sadness reminds me that it is foolish to think that I will ever feel normal, that I will ever fit in, that I will ever be truly loved and accepted, not because of the faults of others, but because I will fuck it up. There is something wrong with me. 

There is some history to that thought. 

***

When I was much younger, I remember being incredibly self-conscious about how my breath smelled. This was not paranoia--I was often told that my breath smelled bad. But it was the way I was told that upset me--I remember more than one occasion where someone would get close to me and literally recoil, saying a version of these exact words: "Oh my God, your breath smells like there is something rotting inside of you."

I would think to myself, "Yep, that's sounds about right".  (Big sigh.) 

So here we go...

For years, I felt I was living on borrowed time, sure that death was waiting for me around the corner. In the 80's I thought I would get HIV and die of AIDS (I didn't and I didn't), and recently was certain that the brown spots on my arms were the skin cancer that would kill me (they weren't and they didn't). I have long felt that I will only be able to relax when I find out what it is that's rotting inside me and know for sure that I am dying and no longer have to wonder when death will come. This experience, as you can imagine, gets in the way of fully leaning into joy for fear that I will be forced to leave the party without being ready to do so.

This is not depression, and it is more than just anxiety; it is the feeling that I am not supposed to be here, like a character in a movie about the multiverse where my presence in this world has the potential to disrupt everything. It is the feeling that I should not be alive, and that my aliveness barely covers up the death inside of me. It is the feeling that I ruin things, that I am "toxic", that I should not be loved because I will just cause those who love me pain. It is the feeling that my eventual death will be a relief to the planet, that the "air" will once again be clear, that the anomaly of my existence will have been corrected. I was never supposed to be here, I am a mistake, and my existence fucks things up.

I do not feel this way all the time.

***

I recently watched a wonderful movie called "Wicked Little Letters", which told the true story of a woman in the 1920's in West Sussex, England. She was found to have been writing nasty, obscene letters to a number of townsfolk over the course of a few years, and yet another woman was sent to jail for the crime. It's a fantastic movie and I recommend you watch it, but the reason I am bringing it up is because it is about a woman who lives in a repressive society that limits her ability to express herself or live an individual life. The obscenities "leak" out of her onto the page, a symptom of rage and grief that has no outlet. 

I feel that sadness "leaks" out of me at times, not necessarily because I repress it, but because I live in a world that is so full of sadness that if I allow myself to feel mine I simply could not function! You know what I am talking about: people passed out on the street from drugs or alcohol who I just "step over"; trash piled high on the sidewalks; impatient drivers honking aggressively; being cut off by a car while crossing the street as though my life were less important than their need to rush; walking past people who have multiple barriers to simple connection; store clerks who never even once look at me or greet me at the register. And these are just local sources of sadness. 

I could go on, but it would just sound like I am whining, and let's be clear, I am not doing that. I am commenting on what I observe in my life that is not right. How do I know that it is not right? Because I have learned to feel nothing when I see these things. That is, until the sadness eventually leaks out.

***

Online, it is said that sadness's role is to "register, communicate, and help release the pain of loss, or to grieve". But we can't do that 24/7 and function well, can we? What if one is "registering and communicating" pain all day?

We often find "pockets" of time in which to feel these things. Have you ever been to a funeral and wondered if it is okay to cry? Have you ever noticed how people look at that one person who cannot stop crying? Nobody wants to be looked at that way! At least I don't. I set aside my sadness until I can feel it without upsetting anyone or attracting any notice. This does not always work (which means that I am still human). Good news, in a way. Nice to have good news. 

The task for me is to also notice, when I am observing the pain around me, examples of joy, beauty, and grace. They are plain to see but not as loud as sadness, yet they are definitely there: drivers who are not honking, the car that waits for me to cross, the passersby who meet my eye and return my greetings, the cashier who asks about my day with genuine curiosity. Sadness will never disappear entirely, but as they say, "You see what you are looking at." I was once told that if you are driving a motorcycle, it is suggested that you look in the direction you are going, otherwise you will likely end up someplace you had no intention of going (or crash). 

If my destination is love, how then might I "look at" sad things? How can I walk through the world and be sure that I don't crash, even when something painful catches my eye? 

***

One of the reasons I hesitated to write about my sadness is because I live a very good life. My experience of pain is mostly internal, whereas there are millions in the world experiencing external sources of pain right now. But my exploration is not a way to "compare" my pain or elevate it above others', it is instead a way to increase the compassion I have for those who are suffering far worse than I. 

The Dalai Lama has said:

“World peace must develop from inner peace. Peace is not just mere absence of violence. Peace is, I think, the manifestation of human compassion.”

He could be talking about both inner peace and outer peace, but it is important to note that a state of peace does not actually rely on things being peaceful. True peace comes from acceptance, followed by the application of compassion in action. True peace is not the absence of pain, but the acceptance of it, leading to the absence of suffering (negative thoughts about what is happening). True peace is possible when we allow our pain to be witnessed by those who care for us. The engine that gets us there is compassion towards self and others. 

Compassion is what holds and contains my sadness leaks. When I am sad, compassion for myself pushes me from isolation to connection, where compassion from others lessens my suffering. This is my road to peace, whether it is with myself, my husband, or with my clients in the therapy room. 

Compassion is what allows me to read about the suffering of others and not feel hopeless or callous. It informs how I think about, and take action towards, both suffering and those who cause suffering. Without compassion, "sad" me becomes "angry" me: a shutdown person intent on hurting others. Compassion finds the pain underneath the anger, allowing it to be expressed as sadness and grief, leading to action, healing, and even transformation. It does not have to look dramatic, it often just looks like tears. 

***

I will never be immune to sadness, nor would I want to be, and I am grateful for that. Sadness is a friend of sorts--I have known it all my life and there is a familiar comfort to it. But I am hoping that when sadness appears, my response shifts from resignation and shame to acceptance and grace. I think by embracing the latter I can live better, and those around me could live better with me. As they say, the world doesn't change, but individuals do. 

Individual change, for me, is a full-time pursuit. My sadness won't leak if I never let it rise to the brim. 

"This House" #3: The Bloom on the Tree

There is a war going on in Hollywood between nature and man, and in the areas where man has the advantage, nature is truly beaten down. Nowhere is this more evident than with the trees along Santa Monica Blvd. east of Highland. These poor damn trees, you would think that they would just give it up, but then that is not in their makeup, so they struggle on against all odds: excessive pruning, street pollution, vandalism, lack of space, water, and care. They remind me of fish that have been pulled from the sea and continue to flop around as though still submerged, gills opening and closing to water that is not there. These fish act as if the water might just be out of their reach, rather than it being completely removed, but perhaps that is just in their nature to "think" this way. I am quite sure that fish do not have a concept of being "out of the water", and in the same way, I suspect that trees lack any sense of being "out of nature".

Many trees thrive out of nature, granted, if their caregivers approximate a nature environment, but there are not any examples of these trees on Santa Monica Blvd. east of Highland.
These trees are not the trees of Pasadena, or the trees of Hancock Park, nor are they the trees of Silverlake. Instead, they are trees that fight for life as though they have no choice but to fight, and for that, I love them. Every Spring, which in Southern California starts in January, these survivors burst with a display of blooms that defiantly declare their intention to go at it for another season. It amazes me that these lovely delicate blooms are capable of appearing from within the soot-covered, gnarled, mutilated branches of trees trying to grow out of concrete holes.

Poor chopped tree

The newly planted trees along Vine St. actually have it worse, if that is possible. The city had spent several thousand dollars planting Jacaranda trees along Vine between Santa Monica Blvd. and Sunset. One night last summer vandals proceeded to damage 32 of the trees by cutting the tops off and leaving just the trunks--a random act of such careless violence that it causes one to question the very culture we live in. I would ride by these trees and almost feel as though I were in mourning, it was so sad to see. The city did not want to replace them until they could be sure that the vandalism would not be repeated, meaning that the trees were not replaced at all.

Happily, with trees being trees, many have survived and have sprouted new branches from their chopped stumps, and it is hoped that the imbeciles who caused the damage last year have now moved on to other distractions (who says there aren't silver linings to stupidity?) I get the sense that the trees along Vine, after the acts of violence, just continued to do what trees do, which is continue to grow in any way possible, even after being damaged and left for dead.

Perhaps someday the city planners will start over from scratch, pouring new sidewalks and pulling the gnarled old trees to replace them with fresh, strong new saplings. We are obliged.
This has already been done further west in the privileged areas of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills. With greater care and numbers, the trees have a collective chance to thrive, which also means that the city and its dwellers have a chance to thrive as well. You see, none of us are really "city dwellers", we are all just displaced nature dwellers, and just as we sweep the walks and paint our houses, we are obliged to care for our green kin.

***
From time to time I get a therapy client suffering from the effects of depression, and I usually love these clients. You might think that it would be depressing to see a depressed client for therapy, but I find that it is often the opposite. They would not be in therapy if they wanted to continue being depressed. So even though there is at times a slower pace to the progress, there is certainly intent to drive it forward.

The way I see it, depression is not something that is a "part of us". I hate the phrase "He/she is depressed", because it immediately limits the expressive capacity of the person. I see depression as something that affects people rather than something that they are (similarly, we say we are suffering from a cold, not we are the cold). While I do agree that there are certain hereditary aspects and chemical conditions that invite greater vulnerability to the effects of stressors, I strongly favor the theory that depression is a response, not a disease. What supports this? The fact that clients can locate times when depression does not affect them. How then can they be depressed?

The term disease is generally used for any condition that can be biologically sourced, and that would include conditions of the brain. But just because something shows up in one's biology, it does not immediately indicate that it started there. I favor the disease definitions that include environmental stressors as sources of depression, but for me I would go further and say that depression is a condition directly sourced in the environment.

Our biological bodies know what to do "in nature". They are amazingly efficient biological structures that run really well when given what they need. However, it would not be a stretch to assert that in modern life, our bodies rarely get "what they need". What are those things? Well, the simplest answer is good food, natural sleep, fresh air, clean water, daily movement, basic shelter (note the qualifiers). What else? We need people. Not just any people, though, but people we feel safe around and whom we are attached to. When we don't get those things, we look for substitutes, if we can find them. But the substitutes never fill the place of the real thing longer than a temporary span of time. Eventually, our bodies protect themselves by shutting down the need, which can have a physical and mental effect: anger, isolation, anxiety, paranoia, and depression. This is the basis of the idea that depression is a healthy response to an ill society, and you don't need me to tell you of the ills of society.

But I will. Profit driven rather than profit sharing, class-ism rather than inclusion, closed doors rather than community, sex rather than intimacy, strangers rather than tribe, independence rather than interdependence, cash rather than barter, narcissism rather than humility, boredom rather than curiosity. Disconnect from food sources, labor, dirt, nature, civility, manners, risk, play, silence, walking, laughing, thinking, simplicity, patience, wisdom, respect. Reliance on technology, walls, comfort, money, status, ownership, power, validation, opinion, dogma, violence, youth. We all play some or all of the game, we all feel the effects, but we all have the ability to choose toward our nature, once we are made aware that we have the choice.

Thriving during the California "Spring"

The clients who come to me complaining of depression remind me of the trees of Santa Monica Blvd., east of Highland. They are "out of nature": clipped, ignored, and not sufficiently cared for. But they are also alive, and their biology is telling them that, despite it all, their nature is to live while alive. When they come into my office they often have their tops chopped off, but they are struggling to grow new branches, and if things go well, within a few months I can see buds blooming from formerly gnarled, soot-covered branches. Because that is our nature, as long as we are alive.



***
No matter how old I get, I notice that I continue to bloom. Some years I only show a few blooms, but as long as I care for my nature, I will have the ability and the desire to flower in the sun. If I forget how to do this, I only need to walk half a block and let the trees on Santa Monica Blvd., east of Highland, remind me.

Doing what it knows how to do.