A Theodicy in Jello

In some of my prior posts, I have attempted, with little success, to treat the topic of depression. I say that I have done so with little success because it seems that every time I talk about something like that - something that involves very personal and human suffering - I bury it underneath a pile of philosophical dithering that often resembles that of Job's comforters. Of course, I think that, given the difficulty of depression, it is understandable that I should seek to avoid speaking about the thing itself - it is painful, and in the face of a painful subject, it is natural that we should almost unconsciously seek to avoid it. But I have become tired of trying to answer emotional pain with philosophical discourse, and therefore this post will not, in any sense, provide an "answer" to the problem of evil or the problem of depression. I merely want to paint a picture of my own experience with depression; too many people are ready to "fix" depression without giving any thought to what the state of depression actually looks like, so I hope that this post can add a descriptive corrective to the often prescriptive answers that people are ready to offer to a depressed person.

To begin, I wish to relate the medical specifics behind my depression, so that readers, if indeed there are any out there, do not have false ideas of my position. I have been on antidepressants (Effexor, and now Bupropion) for the past three years or so, and have remained on them due to my tendency to get high scores on the Beck's inventory (perhaps the only time I have been disappointed to get high scores on a test). However, I have not seen a professional psychiatrist (only a general practitioner) about the matter, and therefore have not been officially diagnosed with clinical depression proper. Official stats, however, do not keep me from becoming depressed.

As I have experienced it, depression is a state in which normal negative emotional reactions to things are amplified. So, today, for example, I became worried and stressed because of four causes

1) I was worried that I was not making enough progress in Latin (I need strong Latin skills for the next degree that I am taking)

2) I was worried that I was disappointing the professor who hired me by not doing enough/the right kind of research for her

3) I was worried that we will not find affordable housing near UBC for September

4) I was worried about making a decision concerning storage for our stuff when we move out

5) I was worried about our house, which is less than clean.

Okay, maybe there are more than four things in this list, but, in reality, a lot of them should not be a big deal. Housing and storage are not terribly difficult to find; I made more Latin progress this past week than I was making earlier this summer, and I am in contact with a fabulous Latin prof, who is willing to help me; by her own admission, my supervisor/boss was having difficulty communicating her expectations to me, and I can't expect myself to read her mind - moreover, she cares about human matters, and would not want me to do endless research at the cost of everything else; and, if I work at cleaning the house/packing in bits, I will eventually be able to manage the messiness. So, technically, I had nothing to worry about.

However, due to my depressive tendencies, each of these matters became a big deal. I know it will sound quite silly to someone who has not experienced depression, but I saw each as concrete proof of my failure at life in general, and as a token of the many disappointments that I can expect in the future. I am barely able to comprehend hope and joy, and when I am just barely able to do so, it feels like I am just waiting for the next mishap, however minor, to plunge me into a chaos of self doubt and loathing. Right now, the clearly rational part of me is protesting fiercely against my vocalisation of such an attitude - indeed, it causes me to be ashamed of such irrational, hyper-dramatic thoughts, and makes me wonder if I do not simply cherish them out of a theatrical love affair with heightened and worthless melodrama. Even as I write, I have to reassure myself that these are real emotions that I have to deal with, and not just performative attempts to "out-Herod Herod."

So, what do I do about them? Once again, I am ashamed, and want to answer that I stoically entomb them in an intellect of steel - that, by trying hard enough and coming up with the right philosophical/theological formula, I successfully suppress the rebellion that my soul undertakes against me. However, trying to argue oneself out of depression is kind of like trying to argue oneself out of having a broken leg. In reality, I cling to what I can. On a less noble note, this means that when I am shopping, I sometimes buy stupid little things, like Jello, to make myself happy. It may seem trite, absurd, and juvenile that such things as Jello can somehow help depression and answer the problem of evil, but, even as I was worrying about this, I remembered how my mentor, the Ecclesiast, embeds in his philosophically depressive texts instructions to eat, drink, and make merry. Perhaps he, too, was so weary of his dungeon of philosophical inquisition that he was glad to participate in something simple, normal, and somewhat delightfully trite. Perhaps he was talking about the Near Eastern equivalent of Jello. But, if this argument does not convince you, you really need to see "Stranger Than Fiction," because it perfectly embodies what I mean: In the face of death and darkness, it is not grand, overarching philosophising that teaches us the meaning of life, but rather things simple and mundane that we nonetheless love because they are embarassingly, painfully, and beautifully human.

But all Jello aside, my relationships with my wife, my friends, and my family have done much to help me survive. I do not, of course, pretend that these people have fixed me, or even that they are always perfect or faithful comforters -indeed, who is? - but they are there, and that is often enough. Even when I am most evasive around them, and they fail to press me to share the things in my heart that I simultaneously need most to share and want most to hide, they are there, much like the God whose name, I AM, indicates simple presence. Throughout all my exaggerated trials, throughout the silliness of my trite sorrows and sufferings, they are there; they are there as God is there, and I am blessed.