Review of Nell Casey (ed.)’s Unholy Ghost: writers on depression:
This powerful collection of reflections on depression includes some well-known authors,
such as Ann Beatie, Susanna Kaysen, and William Styron, but for the most part the less
well-known writers outshine the big names. Possibly that is because editor Nell Casey
had more influence over the less prestigious writers, and encouraged them to crystallize
their ideas. Nearly all of these pieces are new, while a few have been printed
previously in magazines, and just two are extracts from previously published books. All
the authors have been in close contact with depression, either personally or though
helping a family member deal with a crisis. The experience of these writers gives their
contributions authority and depth, and their ability to reflect on this experience makes
this collection both thoughtful and moving.
There’s a common misconception (which I encounter all the time in contending with the families, spouses, employers and friends of the depressed people I treat) that clinical depression is just like the ‘down’ times that the rest of us experience. Untold fractiousnessness and second-level suffering results from the message to the depressed patient that they should just “snap out of it” by “force of will” and “get on with their life”, and the like. For those tolerant of a literary approach, this book is the best antidote I’ve found (I used to recommend William Styron’s Darkness Visible, which is excerpted in this anthology.) to give the skeptic some perspective on the qualitatively distinct suffering of a person in the throes of a deep depression.
Consider this, poet Jane Kenyon’s “Having it Out with Melancholy”, especially the brutal, starkly riveting stanza 7 whose central image has burned its way indelibly into my consciousness since I first encountered this poem many years ago:
If many remedies are prescribed
for an illness, you may be certain
that the illness has no cure.–A. P. CHEKHOV, The Cherry Orchard
1 FROM THE NURSERY
When I was born, you waited
behind a pile of linen in the nursery,
and when we were alone, you lay down
on top of me, pressing
the bile of desolation into every pore.
And from that day on
everything under the sun and moon
made me sad — even the yellow
wooden beads that slid and spun
along a spindle on my crib.
You taught me to exist without gratitude.
You ruined my manners toward God:
“We’re here simply to wait for death;
the pleasures of earth are overrated.”
I only appeared to belong to my mother,
to live among blocks and cotton undershirts
with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes
and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.
I was already yours — the anti-urge,
the mutilator of souls.
2 BOTTLES
Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,
Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,
Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.
The coated ones smell sweet or have
no smell; the powdery ones smell
like the chemistry lab at school
that made me hold my breath.
3 SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND
You wouldn’t be so depressed
if you really believed in God.
4 OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner
as seems adult
(I mean I try to wait for dark)
in order to push away
from the massive pain in sleep’s
frail wicker coracle.
5 ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT
Once, in my early thirties, I saw
that I was a speck of light in the great
river of light that undulates through time.
I was floating with the whole
human family. We were all colors — those
who are living now, those who have died,
those who are not yet born. For a few
moments I floated, completely calm,
and I no longer hated having to exist.
Like a crow who smells hot blood
you came flying to pull me out
of the glowing stream.
“I’ll hold you up. I never let my dear
ones drown!” After that, I wept for days.
6 IN AND OUT
The dog searches until he finds me
upstairs, lies down with a clatter
of elbows, puts his head on my foot.
Sometimes the sound of his breathing
saves my life — in and out, in
and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .
7 PARDON
A piece of burned meat
wears my clothes, speaks
in my voice, dispatches obligations
haltingly, or not at all.
It is tired of trying
to be stouthearted, tired
beyond measure.
We move on to the monoamine
oxidase inhibitors. Day and night
I feel as if I had drunk six cups
of coffee, but the pain stops
abruptly. With the wonder
and bitterness of someone pardoned
for a crime she did not commit
I come back to marriage and friends,
to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back
to my desk, books, and chair.
8 CREDO
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
9 WOOD THRUSH
High on Nardil and June light
I wake at four,
waiting greedily for the first
note of the wood thrush. Easeful air
presses through the screen
with the wild, complex song
of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.
What hurt me so terribly
all my life until this moment?
Along these lines, you might be interested in The Literature, Arts, & Medicine Database, a multi-institutional project initiated in the summer of 1993 at the New York University School of
Medicine — an annotated bibliography of prose, poetry, film, video and art which is being developed as a dynamic,
accessible, comprehensive resource in Medical Humanities, for use in health/pre-health and liberal arts settings.
