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  To Michael Porder

  Observe perpetually … Observe my own despondency. By that means it becomes serviceable. Or so I hope.

  —The Diary of Virginia Woolf, Volume V

  All my watercolors fade to black.

  —Annie Lennox, Pavement Cracks

  PROLOGUE

  Lately I’ve been thinking about the allure of suicide again—the way it says basta! to life, like an Italian grandmother sweeping out all the accumulated debris of daily existence, leaving a clean and unmarked surface. No more rage at the circumstances that have brought you down. No more dread. No more going from day to day in a state of suspended animation, feeling tired around the eyes—behind them, too—and making conversation, hoping no one can tell what’s going on inside. No more anguish, that roaring pain inside your head that feels physical but has no somatic correlation that can be addressed and treated with a Band-Aid or ointment or cast. Most of all, no more disguise, no more need to wear a mask: “What, you, depressed? I never would have known.”

  They come on, such suicidally colored periods, at times like these—I am writing this in the winter, at my desk in New York City—when the days are short, evening starts early, the sky lacks light, and you have ceased admiring your own efforts to keep going. Although they can also come on when the day is long and the light never-fading, in early spring or ripest summer. They come on because your mood, which has been sliding perceptibly downward for weeks, even months, has hit rock-bottom. You lie there in the sludge, no longer bothering to flail around, marooned in a misery that is no less easy to bear because there is nothing wildly terrible to point to in the circumstances of your own life—on the surface, at least—to account for it. And now this fatal tug has made itself felt again, suggesting an end to your despondency, your inability to get with the program, a phrase you’ve never liked in its brisk, gym-coach approach to what is after all a complex situation—this matter of your life and how much you want to submit to its terms—but all the same an apt one.

  You have never understood the program, to be sure, what it is that you are meant to be propelling yourself toward, what long-term goal hovers before you that would suggest the possibility of a successful completion. There is, of course, the matter of your writing, a goal of a sort but also the impulse that keeps you going most reliably. Art is supposed to be long and life short, or so the Latin saying has it. Ars longa, vita brevis. But on a day like today, when everything seems gray and thin, nothing gives you ballast. You are too worn down to even pretend to know why you should put one foot after the other: it is life that seems too long, endless. A clock ticks somewhere in the silence of your apartment, empty second after empty second, reminding you that time hangs heavy when you have lost your way, like a vise around your neck. You are reminded as well of one of your stays on a psychiatric unit, when you sat in the so-called Day Room with some of the other patients and watched TV in the middle of the afternoon, something you would never have done at home and which made you feel entirely useless, like a piece of clothing hung out to dry and then forgotten about.

  How ever did you fill your days before this torpor came and claimed you? It is difficult to recall how you once went naturally from one activity to the next, writing and reading, indulging in virtual window-shopping on the computer, talking to your daughter, laughing over something with a friend, warming up a cup of coffee or tea in the microwave. It wasn’t as though you were ever exactly a dervish of energy, spinning from one hectically scheduled event to the next—you are a stay-at-home sort at the best of times, someone who has to assemble the internal wherewithal to go out and meet people, no matter how open and receptive you seem—but before, you didn’t question the whole ongoing shebang of making plans. Now you can no longer figure out what it is that moves other people to bustle about out there in the world, doing errands, rushing to appointments, picking up a child from school. You have lost the thread that pulled the circumstances of your life together. Nothing adds up and all you can think about is the raw nerve of pain that your mind has become—and, once again, how merciful it would be to yourself and others to extinguish this pain.

  You might have become an addict, under different circumstances, retreating into the nullifying bliss of street drugs. Instead you take a prescribed regimen of legal drugs, tweaked occasionally by a well-meaning psychopharmacologist, and articulate your condition in fifty-minute sessions to people to whom you have paid large sums of money to listen to you over the years. You sit in their offices and discuss your wish to die the way other patients discuss their wish to find a lover. Never mind your daughter, your friends, your writing, the taste of something delicious, a new book, or the TV series everyone is watching: the things that are supposed to moor you to this world. Even those who know you best don’t understand the glare bouncing off your eyes, the glare that prevents you from seeing up the road. Despair is always described as dull, when the truth is that despair has a light all its own, a lunar glow, the color of mottled silver.

  1

  A woman is standing in her kitchen, making a pot of coffee, spooning out the pungent overpriced ground beans from their snappy little aluminum bag into a paper filter, trying to remember what number tablespoon she was on—four? six? three?—before the dark thoughts began tumbling in, doing their wild and wily gymnastics: You shouldn’t, you should have, why are you, why aren’t you, there’s no hope, it’s too late, it’s always been too late, give up, go back to bed, there’s no hope, the day is half gone, no, the day ahead is too long, there’s so much to do, there’s not enough to do, everything is futile, there is no hope.

  What, she wonders for the zillionth time, would it be like to be someone with a brighter take on things, with a more sustainable sense of the purposefulness of his or her existence? Someone possessed of the necessary illusions—that things make sense and will work out for the better, especially if you cultivate your own garden—without which life is unbearable? Surely that person would be sticking with the coffee, not leapfrogging to suicidal desires at the first promptings of despair? What, that is, would it be like to be someone showered and dressed and more or less ready to face the day, not jumping for joy but not hobbled by gloom, either? For surely this is the worst part of being someone who is at the mercy of her own mind the way she is, pickled in the brine of self-hatred: the fact that there is no way out of the reality of being her, no relief in sight other than through forceful or at least conscientious intervention—talk therapy, medication, attempts at forward-march thinking, remembering the starving and the maimed and the generally less fortunate—until she’s up and standing and has hauled herself forward to that point of preparedness other people seem to arrive at with a naturalness of purpose that is utterly foreign to her.

  The kitchen has a window that looks across a courtyard to other buildings, other lives. It is done up in bright antidepressant colors—orange and purple and aqua—and th
e recessed spotlights are on but it feels cast in shadows all the same. The woman in question has gone to great lengths to make her apartment feel inviting, and other people always respond positively to her choice of colors, art, and knickknacks; but when the wind of the dark season comes rustling around her, all her attentive homemaking efforts are to no avail. She has also gone to great lengths to create a life that includes a close relationship with her daughter and intimate friendships; a passionate interest in the surrounding culture in both its deeper and more frivolous aspects; and meaningful work as a writer. She is appreciated for her gimlet eye, her curiosity, her wry humor and warmth; from the outside in, her life might strike others as good, if not enviable. She knows this on some level but the knowledge dries up as the wind howls through her, reminding her that she feels barren and lost and quite without hope.

  The plunge in mood can be sudden and steep, taking her unawares: one minute she’s feeling more or less okay, the next like shooting her head off. It can occur on a Monday afternoon, for instance, when she’s returned home from a dentist appointment to an empty apartment and the very motes in the air strike her as desolate. She feels isolated, stuck in a cave of grief, of ancient and permanent sorrow. And then, right on the wings of this feeling, gurgling up from somewhere inside her, comes the impulse to kill herself. It’s so strong that she goes over to the wood block of knives that sits on the kitchen counter and takes one out, running its serrated edge across her thumb. She envisions herself slashing her wrists … no, filling a bathtub with water first and then slashing her wrists, isn’t that the way to ensure death, the way Diane Arbus did it? To stop herself from thinking about it any further, she gets into her bed and lies there, waiting for the impulse to pass.

  Then again, the dark season can take its own sweet time to make itself known, stretching out over weeks or even months until it announces itself as having irrevocably arrived. The particular afternoon alluded to here puts in an appearance in mid-March, but it could just as likely be a day in mid-December, or mid-August. The condition that envelops her respects no calendar; it arrives precisely when it feels like it. To the woman, it seems as if she has felt this way, in one form or another, for what feels like forever. She is always noticing the grime on the bricks, the flaws in her friends, the heartache lying in wait—the sadness that courses just underneath the skin of life, like blood.

  Depression is a global problem, affecting 350 million people worldwide; in the United States 16 million people had at least one major depressive episode in 2012, and in 2014 there were more than 40,000 deaths by suicide. And yet this is a sadness that no one seems to want to talk about in public, not even in this Age of Indiscretion. At cocktail parties, for instance, you can talk endlessly about attending AA meetings or your stint in rehab without raising any eyebrows. But just imagine trying to tell the truth about how you feel at an upscale social gathering, where everyone’s milling around, wine glass in hand, keeping a narrowed eye out for the next person, the person who isn’t you:

  “How are you?”

  “Not fine. Very depressed, in fact. Can barely get out of bed. Have no idea what’s happening in the world lately and don’t much care.”

  Who wants to hear it? Has ever wanted to hear it? Will ever want to hear it? In spite of our anything-goes, tell-all culture, so much of the social realm is closed against too much real personal disclosure, too much ruffling of the surface. We live in a society that is embarrassed by interiority, unless it is presented in a shrill, almost campy style under the aegis of the recovery movement, with its insistence on dramatic personal testimony. Rigorous self-reflection—a sober and nuanced wrestling with personal demons—has gone out with the great, vexed Victorians, like John Ruskin, Thomas Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold.

  Nor is the private realm particularly conducive to airing this sort of implacable feeling, no matter how affectionate or willing to listen friends are. Depression, in its insistence on its own stubborn one-note reality, becomes boring for other people to hear about, patient as they may initially be. Take a yoga class, they advise, or Get a massage. Just don’t go on and on about it, is what they don’t say, but you can see the resistance to joining you in your gloom in the set of their jaw.

  When the woman finally disappears once again into the murky haze of the dark season—it has crept in as it always does, an invasion of negative thoughts that take over her interior, unnoticed by others, making no sound, raising no alarms except to she who hosts it, and by then it’s too late—its malignant work is done and there is no one to intervene on her behalf.

  This woman has a child named Zoë, a vivid daughter in her twenties with whom she laughs until the tears run in the emotionally incestuous way of mothers and daughters. She worries that Zoë has, willy-nilly, been placed too much in a caretaker role, keeping one eye out for a mother who was first hospitalized for depression six months after her birth—and again when she was not yet four, and then again when she was in her late teens. The woman loves this daughter with all her might but often feels that if she really loved her she would free her from the presence of a mother who is too much shade and too little sun, the better to let the girl flourish.

  The woman is me, of course, but she might be anyone suffering from an affliction that haunts women almost twice as much as men, even though it is, curiously, mostly men who write about it. (They are also four times more likely to kill themselves than women are, though they are diagnosed as depressed and populate psychiatric units in far smaller numbers than women.) It’s always interested me that notwithstanding the far greater statistical occurrence of depression in women, men seem to cast larger shadows than women even here, as though their illness were evidence of a cultural rather than personal distress. In the male version of the depression narrative, the blackness of mood arrives mostly like a pox, without warning. There are exceptions to this model, such as the accounts by Andrew Solomon and Edward St. Aubyn, but usually there is no indication of gloomy temperamental leanings; instead the finger is pointed at a specific precipitating cause outside the self, such as the aftereffects of a significant death, or withdrawing from alcohol or a sleeping pill—or, again, of being diagnosed with a serious illness. One minute you are puttering about, being a highly successful writer or scientist; the next, you are seriously contemplating jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. Or, conversely, there is no external cause at all: like Chicken Little, you wake up one morning to discover the sky is falling.

  In the second instance, the writer suddenly adduces the possibility of a hitherto overlooked genetic shadow; a schizophrenic uncle or a suicidal third cousin is conveniently recalled. Either way, the subject is spared the need to expose his own vulnerability or examine his problems; everything is linked to circumstances outside his own psychology. William Styron took this road in his poignant but strangely contextless memoir Darkness Visible, where he linked his depression almost entirely to going on the wagon. And then there is the British biologist Lewis Wolpert, who, toward the end of his memoir Malignant Sadness, mentions the many readers who have thanked him for openly discussing his personal experience with depression but adds the crucial qualifier: “I must admit that I am not free of the stigma, for I prefer a biological explanation for my depression rather than a psychological one.”

  Men, that is, have cannily figured out how to sidestep the implication of moral failing that attaches to mental illness—as well as the specific criticism of self-indulgence that is attributed to more introspective accounts of this condition—by insisting on a force outside themselves, or on a purely genetic susceptibility. The female version, by contrast, tends to tip the other way. As epitomized by Anne Sexton’s poetry and Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, female sufferers tend to take ownership of the condition of depression, accepting that it springs not only from errant biology but from a yawning inner lack—some elusive craving for wholeness or well-being. This writing is usually highly interior almost to a fault: the world in which the narrator moves when she is not depressed is
given such short shrift that it tends to fall away entirely.

  In the autobiographical novels of Jean Rhys, for instance, Rhys’s dysphoric heroines prowl the dingier neighborhoods of Paris in a state of such inner malaise that the reader is left with little other than a hermetic atmosphere of intense despair. The risk with these narratives is that they end up consuming any flicker of vitality and in the process threaten to alienate the reader’s patience and sympathy. This brings us back to the gender divide once again, which suggests that women’s depression is an entirely idiosyncratic matter, an accumulation of bereft responses to unlucky incidents—failed love affairs, thwarted work, bad childhoods—that has little to teach us as a paradigmatic model, with conclusions that might be drawn and applied to someone other than the depressed person under scrutiny.

  As for the affliction itself, it has been called different names at different times in history—acedia, melancholia, malaise, cafard, brown study, the hypes, the blues, the mean reds, the black dog, the blue devils, the dismals, Lapp sickness, Anfechtung (the term the Hutterites use, meaning “temptation by the devil”)—and has been treated as a spiritual malady, a failure of will, a biochemical malfunctioning, a psychic conundrum, or sometimes several things at once. (The French, with their aptitude for elegant packaging, have devised a whole moody philosophy of “abjection,” as explicated by psychoanalytic thinkers like Julia Kristeva, in lieu of anything simpler. Both abjection and depression involve an impossible state of mourning for the lost maternal object, although, in her book Black Sun: Depression and Melancholia, Kristeva posits depression as a discourse with a learned language rather than strictly a pathology to be treated.) The condition arouses, depending on the circumstances, pity, hostility, suspicion, sympathy, contempt, disregard, respect, or some unsorted-out combination thereof.