I’ve been reading Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘The Brother Karamazov’, and having read a few others of his works I came to question the moods often associated with depression. You see, in his books I’ve always found a character that is just simply a miserable man, a man that is also spiteful despite the fact he is also often the protagonist.
“I am a spiteful man”, one story begins. Here we meet a man that is sad, miserable, unhappy. He wants for nothing because he has already accepted he is a miserable man. He has a job, he knows people, he does ‘things’. He’s not an outcast or necessarily a strange man. In fact there are probably a lot of people who feel just like him. He was sad, yes. But why? I always wondered why, but I now am starting to realise ‘how could he not be?’ I think the answer to this question lies not in looking at what he had (a job, friends, etc.), but what he didn’t have. Where was his purpose? Where was his passion? Where was his love? Where was his self-pride and self-efficacy? And who if not himself could he blame for lacking these things? You have to hate the man who deprives you of these things – and so comes the self-loathing.
In one of my most recent episodes of “depressive” thoughts I was asked why did I not seek adequate treatment once and for all. And pondering this question, I had to remember the spiteful man of Dostoevsky’s stories. Why was his misery untreatable? Because it was a matter of the human condition, not of an illness, per se. (Note, I am not making a general statement about the existence of the illness we call depression, but rather about a personal reflection based on my own experience.) And so what is a man like Dostoevsky’s protagonist to seek treatment for? “Depression”? Or the fact that so many aspects of his life are not yet in place? I remember a quote from ‘The Manual of The Warrior of Light’ by Paulo Coelho: “By now, millions of people will have given up. They don't get angry, they don't weep, they don't do anything; they merely wait for time to pass. They have lost the ability to react. You, however, are sad. That proves that your soul is still alive”. Sometimes I think a bigger sin than being sad is to not be sad at lacking that which enriches life: love, company, passion, freedom, activity, purpose, peace…
Why am I sad? Because I have a mental illness, or because my life is not yet like it should be? Don’t get me wrong, I have many things in my Iife I am very grateful for and I have had many achievements… But instead of telling you what I am lacking, let me tell you of what I am now achieving, how I am “curing” my state. I have found the love of my life and I am planning a family with children. I work a job that I don’t hate. My passion is writing, even this humble blog. And I have finally stopped being afraid of being judged for being myself. I am learning resilience, building my self-efficacy, and I take the responsibility for my own emotions. What I still lack IS worthy of my dissatisfaction. But what I have is worthy of so much joy.
-I used to think I was cyclothymic. Turns out I may just be human.
