Sadness Is No Illness

Sadness. Regret. Grief.

In the old days, I’d have called this state of mind depression. But that word refers to a mental illness, and this doesn’t feel pathological. Rather, it seems utterly normal to feel down after everything that’s happened.

As March draws to a close, I look back on a six month run of painful events that started with my sister’s death from alcoholism on October first. The last three months of 2011 were shadowed by that loss. My first holiday season with no one else alive from my family of origin felt especially mournful. As the days shortened and darkened around my bereavement, I continued to face one disappointment after another on the acupuncture front. And just as my hopes of once again earning an income began to flicker out, the company that pays me disability insurance threatened to cut me off on false pretenses.

With all that stress, perhaps it’s no surprise that in mid-January I suffered my ruptured aneurysm and two hospitalizations. This bodily malfunction caused pain of greater severity for longer periods than I’d ever endured before, not to mention tsunamis of nausea and a twelve hour stint of nearly non-stop vomiting. Because of intestinal obstruction, I was fed intravenously for several weeks after seven days of flat-out starvation. Today, despite six weeks of normal eating and living, I still feel sorely depleted.

Not long after the internal hemorrhage, a friendship that has been important to me for years ended in a big, angry blowup that appears final. Also, during the past few months my spinal problems worsened, and now my left arm is afflicted by nerve root compression that causes stabbing pain. As a result, I can’t use that hand to carry anything much heavier than a glass of water. And the abdominal discomfort that’s plagued me for a year (and that we now know was caused by the same vascular insufficiency that created the aneurysm) is bothering me more than ever.

And of course there’s the letdown after the major manic episode that swelled, crested, and broke as my world seemed to be falling to pieces. Inevitably, it seems, energetic and euphoric states are followed by their opposites.

At the tail end of all this chaos, my cousin came to town and we held an informal ceremony for my sister at the western edge of San Francisco, where the city meets the Pacific Ocean. My wife and I owned a beautiful vintage house near that beach until December 1999. My sister visited us often there, and she loved to walk along the shore and collect sand dollars.

The memorial at Ocean Beach felt painful. First and foremost, of course, there was my grief about my sister’s passing, which I’ve had trouble facing before now: the pain has seemed too overwhelming.

But that neighborhood often makes me uneasy just by itself, because it brings to mind difficult memories. For instance, very near the spot where we spread a few teaspoonfuls of Janice’s cremains, in 1996 my wife and I watched in horror as an enormous Akita grabbed our beloved three-pound Pomeranian, biting hard and killing her almost instantly. The resulting emotional devastation ruined our weekly walks along the beach and probably fed into my hastiness in abandoning the area a few years later (see below).

Going to that beachside neighborhood feels especially poignant because before Mickey’s death I was enjoying some of the most satisfying years of my life. We lived in a wonderful city just a few blocks from the surf. I was a respected surgeon who drove to work every day along one of the most beautiful routes in California. My avocation as a figurative sculptor kept me occupied during my free time. I felt happy and proud of myself.

So much has changed since then. My neck disease ended both my surgical career and my sculpting. My mental health collapsed. We left San Francisco after I sold our beach house with little forethought during the rising phase of an extremely intense manic episode. As years passed, I tried many new careers but wasn’t able to sustain any of them. Our financial situation gradually deteriorated. And now I’m faced with many new losses that seem to echo all that escaped my grasp twelve years ago. My sister’s memorial on the sand wove my unraveled dreams into a tapestry of regret.

But change and eventual decay are what life promises, yes? Earlier tonight I was looking at a book we bought long ago, back when we lived in that unique house near the beach. It shows photos of the neighborhood and coastline dating from the mid 1800’s through the 1950’s. In one 1936 aerial photo of the amusement park that used to line the shore you can even see the house we once owned; it would have been eleven years old at that time.

What struck me in looking at those photos was how the people looked so ordinary in their happiness. Gazing out from those images were romantic couples strolling along the esplanade, boisterous families gawking at the amusements, and robust men racing out of the surf. One photograph showed a group of young women wearing swimsuits that looked like today’s scuba diving outfits; the hand-pencilled caption read: Bathing Beauties. Most of these young people were posing self-consciously for the cameras, but they all looked excited to be spending a day at the beach. We can only imagine what happened as they grew older. What joys, adventures, and successes did they find in life? What disappointments, illnesses, and tragedies did they eventually suffer? Could they have guessed that their innocent pleasure would be captured in a souvenir book and viewed a century later, long after their death? Did they ever think they would be reduced to anonymous images, historically interesting but otherwise nearly forgotten?

This is the nature of life. It buds, blossoms, fruits, and falls. As I survey the wreckage of the past six months it seems like nothing more than ordinary human history. I don’t feel sorry for myself. It would be isolating and self-pitying to call my natural sadness a mental illness. Loss and grief connect me with the global family of humankind. They pull me into the passion play that repeats itself generation after generation. The actors and scenery change, but hope, fear, joy, and grief cycle forever through their seasons, as humanity lives and loves.


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Sadness Is No Illness — 10 Comments

  1. It takes a lifetime to know that all we have is the “now”. Your post is so beautiful. If you haven’t read any books by this psychiatrist: you may find it interesting. It takes it from the metaphorical reincarnation to experiences of that actual process, if you are open to possibly believe.

  2. Will,
    Grief is a natural state of being when we suffer loss. It sounds like you’re being with your process and staying present to your grief. I hear your sadness in your written words and my heart goes out to you. Going through loss is never easy. But, the only way to the other side is to walk all the way through it.
    In my post “Life is a Banquet” I made a statement about seeing sorrow through to the end, because if we don’t, we’ll meet it again further down the road.
    I hold you compassionately and tenderly in my heart as you walk your path,
    As I’m processing my grief over loss, I keep hearing this saying run through me. “Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

  3. Branda–

    I enjoyed your ‘Banquet’ post, but somehow missed the line about seeing sorrow through to the end. But I think it’s important and a good argument against suicide. And I mean this even without invoking reincarnation (which I’m open to but not certain about)–why walk out on the show before the pain does? Oddly, I had never heard the ‘weeping’ quote before yesterday, and then I heard it twice: once in the morning at a 12-step meeting, and later at night when I read your comment the first time. The person who brought it up at the meeting said, “joy comes in the morning, but it isn’t always the next morning.” Many of us laughed a that because yes, sorrow ends, but we sometimes need a great deal of patience during its reign.



  4. Mary–

    One of my readers suggested Brian Weiss before (it might have been you?; I no longer recall). So I read one of his books. I found it quite interesting and I keep an open mind, but even so I don’t think we can be absolutely sure that his subjects are definitely regressing to previous lives. I can see the possibility of it, but there may be other explanations. Like so many things in spiritual pursuit, certainty on a factual level is often not part of the process. But do I believe we somehow resonate with all other beings, including those already gone? Yes. I do suspect we are connected with something like spiritual synapses that reach right to the core of our DNA. I muse on the topic of life after death in a post I wrote last year: An Organic Afterlife. Thanks for the comment.



  5. This blog is wonderful and thank you. Your blogs always are, but for me this was extra special as it helped pull me out of my feeling of ‘aloneness’ and into the global family, which of course we are all a part. Bless you Will, my heart goes out to you for all you have been though. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us.

  6. This is beautifully poignant. A beautiful composition from a beautiful soul.
    I laughed when I read about the remark you heard in a 12-step meeting, when someone astutely noted that “joy comes in the morning, but it isn’t always the NEXT morning.” So true!
    The weeping/joy saying comes from the second half of Psalm 30:5:
    “….Weeping may endure for a night,
    But joy comes in the morning.”

  7. Karen–

    I’m glad to have helped. That’s the whole point of my blogging: to help others as I also help myself figure life out.

    Now that my immediate family is gone, along with all my second-degree blood relatives (aunts, uncles, grandparents), I am left without much of what we normally consider family. In addition to my wife and dogs, I have five surviving cousins, a few of whom correspond with me but who I see rarely. I also have a loving relationship with an aunt who I am not genetically related to but who has known me my whole life. But given these small numbers, and especially after eating dinner last night with a (Greek) man whose family gatherings bring together hundreds of people, I can easily feel pretty alone in the world. So the recognition that all humanity (and indeed all of life) is related to me on both genetic and conscious levels is vital to my sense of belonging. I feel deeply comforted by my membership in the family of Life. I am pleased that my writing helped you find that same reassurance.



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