What’s Wrong with Silence?

This morning I read a well-intentioned but silly article listing ten things to say and not to say to people suffering from depression. As I read it, I felt more and more like a jerk because none of the “right” things to say would be right to say to *me*. I kept thinking, “Really? That’s supposed to help? Why are they telling people to say this?” So I felt worse than ever after reading it – until I saw that one of the commenters shared my feelings.

I realize articles like this are meant to be helpful; all the good intentions on earth get poured in there and slopped together in a big happy mess. However, in depression’s case, this only makes everything worse.

Here’s why: When you give people a list of ‘things to say’ to someone who suffers from ___________ [<– fill in the blank, although this is specifically about depression], you are setting up an expectation in them of being able to actually help their stricken loved one via America’s favorite kind of panacea: Instamatic Helpfulness!

No. Anything Instamatic is probably crap, which we should really know by now.

So what ends up happening is that well-intended people try to reach out, perhaps using these ‘magic words’ listed in the article, and when this does not end up helping, the would-be helper is disappointed. Perhaps even hurt or confused. This adds more complication to the already staggering burden of depression.

Our culture has become obsessed with noise, filling every void with it, meaningless or not. C.S. Lewis had a quote that went something like, ‘Music and Silence are divine; noise is diabolical.’ Yeah, I’m too lazy (depressed) to look it up, but I do agree with that.

But Americans love noise! Noise and what I sometimes call “I-CAN-DO-IT”ness combine in this tragically deformed philosophy that there must be *something* to say for every occasion. There has to be some magic word, some special key, some button to push or sequence of buttons to push, that will solve every problem and unlock every door.

The thing is, there isn’t. Video games are a great escape in part because there is always a solution and often a shortcut; but that is simply not always the way life works.

The deepest, most profound emotion can never be expressed in words, whether it’s joy, sorrow, terror, or rage. In the cases of both joy and sorrow, words can so easily cheapen and ruin these moments of hushed, sacred feeling that almost hum with genuine fullness of being.

Depression is not the same as sorrow, and vice-versa; but a similar rule applies, I find. Depression is a battle that can only be fought by one person, no matter how loving or well-intended his or her family and friends may be in wishing to help conquer it. It’s a private battleground; no seconds allowed in the ring.

I’m not saying support and love are not welcome and appreciated. They certainly are; but I for one feel much freer to concentrate on each day’s challenges when that love and support is given with understanding, respect; with silence.

I love silence; it can be soothing, healing, and restful in a way nothing else really can. When I’m fighting depression, I do realize the ‘fight’ looks a lot more like me lying down in the mud refusing to move; but believe me, I’m fighting. And silence will help me far more than a cheerleading section or a parade of attempted distractions.

It’s OK not to have the answers. It’s really not OK to try to pretend we do.

 

Wide Awake

Today is a strange day, filled with a sense of anticipation that is as bewildering as it is refreshing. The redwood forest through which I walk each day is a magical place at all times, yet it’s too true that familiarity dulls the senses. I always enjoy greeting the trees and the land and the water, yet I have been preoccupied of late; distracted.

A day like today is a remedy for all distraction – it refuses to allow preoccupation. The whole land seems to hum with a sense of expectation, the trees seem to be holding their breath, the water seems restless and watchful. Around every turn I met my familiar friends, yet they were different today. I saw them with the eye of a stranger again, and was filled with wonder. The structure of the leaves, the kinetic positions of the branches; all seemed drawn in stark relief, sharp and clear, more transcendent than ever.

Movement just out of sight was constant, it seemed; sudden small motions in the corners of my eyes – I would look and see leaves shivering, as if something had just disturbed them and departed in a blink. A Steller’s Jay, unusually quiet, landed in my path, then flew onto a branch beside my head, and kept pace for a while (no doubt wanting food). A flock of quail burst out from beneath and above an old fence, then raced ahead of us on the path for a time. A huge eucalyptus gave a sudden crack while I was walking beneath its branches that made me jump, thinking a branch was coming down on me; but I looked up to see merely a sheet of its old bark falling from it, revealing the smooth new skin of the tree beneath.

Specific places I sense to be sacred – mostly redwood circles or the pairings I tend to call portals – stood out almost aggressively today; impossible to pass them without awe.

Berries are vivid on their branches, leaves brilliant lemon, gold, scarlet or purple. The older leaves litter the paths in drifts, then rise up in little swirls and spirals when the wind plays with them. The ivy that carpets the ground and adorns the trees seems to glow and quiver in the slanting sunlight, or sleep in deep green velvet shadows.

The trees are awake today; far more wide awake than I am, I think.