Sadness, Repentance… Useless

The other day, I was in a rather grim spot, emotionally, and I found myself going over my various failures and transgressions — my, for lack of a better word, sins.

As I say, it wasn’t particularly pleasant. It was, indeed, one of my little side trips into the persistent depressive disorder (PDD) that I mentioned a while back. But, I thought it might be useful to examine those incidents in which I had hurt others, and then, perhaps, learn from that history, so that I wouldn’t do such things again. Go ye forth and sin no more, and all that.

Honestly, my confessions weren’t too exciting. My sins are real enough, but rather colorless. I have not killed anyone. I haven’t bullied or tormented anybody. I have remained faithful to my wife. I don’t think I was abusive to my son. At least I don’t remember hitting him or screaming at him or a regular basis. Though, God knows I was tempted.

Even so, I do feel that there are things I’ve done that I should be ashamed of. And I did feel shame. I found myself thinking, almost compulsively, about the things I’d done wrong — things which, on a rational level, were rather petty. Yet, for me, they seemed overwhelming. And I must confess that I began to wonder about my own value to anyone.

And then, I had a curious insight.

To wit, self-reproach—at least when it reaches a certain, melodramatic level—is strangely akin to self-love. Or self-pity. You are, in a funny way, evading responsibility. You find yourself saying something like “how could you…God, or Circumstance, or Fate, or Society, or Mom and Dad, or Whoever…have allowed me to be so flawed that I did such awful things?” Or, to put it another way, how could heaven and earth allow me to suffer with the knowledge of my sin?

And thus, the focus of the story ceases to be on the victim… of whoever you have harmed…but yourself. And there is something horribly narcissistic in that.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. Regret, shame, repentance…these things are good, when they have some positive result, that is, if they drive you …drive me…to atone, or not to hurt others again in the same way…

But if they do not, I fear they have no benign effect. I fear, in fact, that they actually compound the problem. After all, if you have already decided that “Oh Lord, I am not worthy,” there is nothing to be done…no reason to work and sweat and sacrifice to seek redemption.

And thus how comfortable…how serene!…it is to remain exactly where you are… armored with your guilt, defended by your shame.

My Special Shadows

I suffer from mild depression. Well, actually, it isn’t Depression. Technically, it is “persistent depressive disorder,” (PDD), though when I was first diagnosed with it, it was called “dysthymia.” I don’t know why they changed the name. I’m glad they did, though. PDD is so much easier to spell.

But, whatever you call it, PDD is defined (here quoting Wikipedia) as “a mood disorder consisting of the same cognitive and physical problems as depression, with less severe but longer-lasting symptoms.” I’m thankful for the “less severe” part. I’ve never had a serious, really deep Depressive episode. And, if it is all the same to the universe, I’d just as soon I never did.

Which isn’t to say that dysthymia/PDD is particularly enjoyable. It is “treatment resistant,” and, as the name suggests, it seems to last forever. I’m basically never free of it. Even the most intensely joyful moments of my life are a little shadowed. Usually it involves finding fault with myself—I’m not successful enough, I’m not wise enough, I’m not strong enough—and the incident which should be ecstatic becomes, somehow, a little sour, a little flawed…

I am taking meds for the condition. I have done so for years. Right now, I’m on Bupropion. Truth be told, it isn’t clear to me that it works all that well. I feel no happier when I take the medication. Yet, I keep taking it because when I stop I find myself experiencing deeper troughs and darker lows. I suppose you could say that the drug seems chiefly to restrain the shadows, but not remove them.

Which is odd, because when I first started taking anti-depressants (I believe it was Zoloft in those days) they worked quite well. For about a week, I was genuinely not depressed. It was a strange and curious experience…and it was (alas) quite temporary. I later learned that this is typical for those with have PDD.

There may be, however, a touch of dawn’s early light on the horizon. Some researchers are saying that tiny doses of hallucinogens—psilocybin (magic mushrooms), LSD—seem to have powerful anti-depressive effects. I’ve also run across several articles about using ketamine as a treatment for depression. I even read that some of these new drugs sort of reboot the brain, and that at least some of the people treated with them never have depression or PDD again.

Unfortunately, these are illegal at the moment. The hallucinogens are class one drugs. Ketamine, “Super K,” is a club and rape drug, and therefore carefully controlled. But, even so, I’m guessing that eventually you’ll be able to get those sorts of drugs as part of any normal treatment for depression.

So, maybe, someday, I’ll be able to try them. And, who knows? Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones and my PDD will vanish forever.

Maybe.

Or maybe…maybe more likely…it won’t work. The drugs might be fine, yes, but maybe they won’t work on me…because …because…

I’m not sure I can abandon my depression. I am not sure it is in me.

You see, I’ve had the shadows in my life for a very long time. They have been my constant companions. They keep me company. They fill up my day. They give me purpose and even an identity. They are, sometimes, I fear, how I define myself.

If I were somehow rid of them…the shadows, and all the things that dwell within them…all the teeth and claws…

Would I still be me?

Or someone else?

Someone that I, and others, would not recognize…

And might not love?