The age old question of suffering’s meaning has been on my mind lately. Anyone who has looked at the few memoir pieces on this site knows my childhood gave me little sense of safety or love. As is true for many, if not most, of those who have major issues with depression, my upbringing was filled with sorrow, fear, loneliness, and shame. Even so, I entered adulthood with a huge amount of energy and an insistent drive to escape my past. I worked hard, albeit a bit erratically, to succeed in school. I got accepted to top medical training programs, and managed to secure an excellent post when I finished. Although my personal life was ever stormy, my professional life followed a smooth upward trajectory. By age forty I believed the past was behind me. I had triumphed.

Then the whole thing collapsed. My neck developed serious disk problems, causing excruciating pain. When I realized the constant, intense aching was on the verge of reducing the quality of my operations, I concluded I could no longer ethically work as a surgeon. Life quickly became confusing, and I made a number of rash decisions that have haunted me for the past ten years. I ended up in a hospital for depression, and was discharged on medications that triggered an intense manic episode. After the mania resolved, I settled into a deep and stubborn depression. At first I trusted my psychiatrist as she put me on ever-increasing doses and numbers of medications. After a few years, however, the dreadful side effects became far worse than the dark moods that the drugs were barely elevating. As I tapered my medication load, I struggled to accept the permanent and humiliating bodily damage the crude pharmaceuticals had inflicted. I also looked back on career opportunities that had been ruined by the sedating effects of the powerful drugs. Then, just as I secured a solid handle on that latest grief, in the past year my arthritis pains began increasing. I had enjoyed a relative break of many years when I quit operating, but now the pain is often as bad as when I worked as a surgeon, without me doing anything to exacerbate it. The only consolation is that I am better able to tolerate and function with discomfort.

Spiritually, I alternate between two frames of mind. The first is a profound state of acceptance. I am able to embrace the whole rocky story of my life, and recognize how much it has taught me about humanity, adversity, and struggle. I feel at peace in every cell of my being, filled with a sense that this entire drama has made me into a person with a unique perspective and at least a little wisdom. On the other hand, sometimes I only feel sorry for myself. Why did I have to grow up hated, abused, and neglected? Why did I have to lose my hard-won career so early? Why have I had to contend with the subsequent menacing depressions, awful discouragement, and medication-induced injuries? Why do I have to suffer such physical pain? It’s all-too-easy to think: “Poor me!”

In spiritual systems I see two broad solutions to the problem of suffering. The Judeo-Christian formula is to look at hardship as God’s will. Either God is punishing me for my sinfulness, or God is sending these trials in order to enrich my soul. Regardless of the motive, trauma is inflicted by an all-powerful, all-knowing creative deity who sees what is best for me, or at least what I deserve. The Eastern view has to do with karma. My tribulations result from conditions set in motion long ago. In its purest form, the Law of Karma would tell me my difficulties are the fruit of harm I inflicted in earlier lifetimes. Perhaps I was a torturing, genocidal war criminal in a past life. Karma-lite remains neutral on reincarnation, but tells me my hardships are the consequences of my own actions in this life. In truth, much of my adult difficulty did come from my own choices, including the various destructive acts I’ve performed. But that doesn’t explain my childhood; it’s hard to see how a seven-year-old boy could have earned the kinds of torment my stepmother perpetrated in the dead of night.

The hard-nosed scientific approach is to see suffering as largely random and without meaning. Some aboriginal systems would suggest I’d been cursed.

All I can say for sure is that the tribulations have indeed shaped me. Sadly, they have sapped me of joy and enthusiasm. But it is also true that most of my best qualities have arisen from my struggle. More than ever before I try hard not to hurt others, now that I see how deeply pain can penetrate. I acutely feel the sorrows and frustrations of those who open up to me about their own stories; I am sure my empathy is vastly greater than if life had been easier. Fear has largely evaporated because my past agony has been so immense that no matter what happens, I am unlikely to feel anything worse than I have already endured; I am confident, at last, of my ability to survive anything. I can write with all sincerity: “Yes, the suffering has had value. It has both tempered me and softened me. It has expanded my heart, sharpened my vision, and opened my soul.”

And yet, much of the time I simply wish things had been easier.

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My last post talked about my encounter with emptiness, and how it has disoriented me. I phrased the dilemma in Buddhist terms, but I also pointed out that although much of that tradition appeals to me, I don’t define myself as a Buddhist. I resist such self-labeling for a couple of reasons. The Buddha himself, I suspect, would have discouraged people from defining themselves that way, or any other way. In addition, I want to remain wide open to other sources. In particular, I maintain loyalty to my Quaker roots. (The Religious Society of Friends figured largely in my ancestry, and that faith has helped me ever since I first questioned my atheist upbringing in the 1980′s.) In taking up the trade of acupuncture I’m encountering philosophies that, although not incompatible with Buddhism (since they are Eastern in derivation,) are undeniably different. In this as in all things, I like to foster a receptive mind, while picking and choosing what works for me.

During an appointment yesterday, my acupuncturist offered me an alternate way to frame my current angst. He pointed out that one can grieve for negative influences almost as much as positive ones. I know this firsthand from the death of my stepmother. I went through a clear-cut grief process after her departure, even though I don’t miss her in the slightest. She treated me kindly on only the rarest of occasions, and could usually be counted on to deliver a cutting comment that undermined whatever was most important to me. Add in her breathtaking cruelty toward me when I was little, and you’ll understand why I primarily felt relief when she died. And yet, I also felt bereaved.

The loss this time is not of a person, but of a battle, or a war. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fighting psychic demons. Self-hatred, discouragement, bitterness, fury, confusion, grief, doubt, and many other painful mental states have often threatened to consume me, and I’ve attacked them all, tooth and nail. An enormous amount of energy was expended in this ceaseless assault against my mind’s weather. How could it not be all-consuming to wrestle the incontrovertible fact of one’s emotional condition at every moment? I finally understand the futility of my lifelong struggle. If one feels something, one feels it. Why not just settle into the experience? Then one will have more energy to pursue thoughts and actions that might foster better frames of mind. But it’s a waste of effort to fight the emotion that’s already in place, or to bemoan the past, or to fear the unknowable future. Change happens with action, not fretting. But I have made a religion out of fretting.

No longer. I simply don’t feel the internal pressure and outrage anymore. I can sit comfortably with sorrow, or disappointment, or any of the other other so-called negative emotions, and wait for it to pass. Each discomfort passes away. And then it comes back. I see that now, and I’m OK with it.

Which leaves me standing on a silent battlefield, in full war regalia, with no enemies in sight. It’s as if an exciting, epic Hollywood war movie suddenly came to an anticlimactic ending. The enemy vanished without warning, as did the allies. The war and the armies disappeared. You can see how that might be a little disorienting.

Now what? I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is to reach out to others, to help them gain the same insights into the futility of fighting reality. In my current dullish frame of mind, I almost wonder if offering this will truly be a kindness. Maybe it would be better to let others remain in maximum battle mode. Then I remember that I know peace now, as I never have before. If the price of serenity is a bit of boredom and grief, it is worth it. At least I find the bargain fair, and I believe others should be offered the same emotional armistice. Some will no doubt choose to pursue a better victory rather this slightly unfulfilling stalemate. They are welcome to fight onward. Others, I am sure, will welcome the freedom to live with a peaceful mind. And yes, peace can be a bit boring.

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Here comes another book-inspired post. Since my last essay, I’ve finished Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha, by Tara Brach. Coincidentally, the text launches with a discussion of the biblical story of Eden’s Garden and the Fall. The same saga figured in the conclusion of my last post even though I had not yet begun Brach’s book when I wrote the piece.

Brach focuses her discussion of acceptance on the self, or perhaps I should say the person, since as a Buddhist she recommends we not hold too tightly to self-identity. She points out that with the story of the Fall, Judeo-Christian tradition has bequeathed to most of us feelings of core inadequacy and sinfulness. Our culture teaches us that we are fundamentally flawed and undeserving, thus effectively locking us into lifelong struggles to prove our worth. We are trained to reject much of what comprises us; we criticize our bodies, remain dissatisfied with our accomplishments, and reject our feelings.

Brach’s book offers one great suggestion after another, including meditations that can help us accept our personalities, our discomforts, and our cravings. Most of what she writes rings true for me: not just her descriptions of modern angst, but also her prescriptions for transcending the curse of self-doubt. Her meditative exercises sound a lot like my own practices of recent years, and her tales of how she and others have found relief resonate with my own recovery.

I was particularly impressed by how she helps people cope with the aftermath of childhood trauma. Because Buddhist practice cautions us against believing all the many stories we tell ourselves about our lives, it occasionally happens that those who’ve suffered child abuse end up being told that their suffering results simply from clinging to stories.

This happened to me in a recent meditation retreat that was aimed at those who battle depression and anxiety. During a discussion session, I explained that because of an extremely adverse childhood, I’d struggled most of my life with depression. I then asked about a meditation practice I’ve been exploring. Sometimes I imagine a different upbringing. In this practice, I build for myself a lovely and love-filled childhood, completely fictional. It’s a surprisingly comforting visualization.

The meditation teacher endorsed this practice. The mind, she said, doesn’t know the difference between reality and imagination. So long as I remained clear about what I was doing, and didn’t get lost in denial or idle fantasy, she thought it a skillful means to improved frames of mind. But then she opined that my so-called terrible childhood was in itself just another story.

I didn’t question her at the time, but later emailed her and gently suggested that it is a bit hazardous to tell victims of child abuse that their traumatic memories are ‘just’ stories. I asked her to clarify what she meant, since I am convinced she would never tell a person who suffered abuse that his or her experience was unimportant. I’d love to hear her thoughts, but she has not yet responded.

Brach negotiates these waters well. She is able to show how one can remain realistic about one’s past injuries, and yet find resources to transcend the victim role. For instance, she tells a touching story of a woman who visualized a fairy godmother visiting her as a frightened child. The guardian angel explained to the terrified little girl why she was having certain feelings, and how she could protect herself. The woman felt much better after this style of meditation.

I am all for using the imagination to heal trauma, but only if it honors the suffering of the injured little one. To dismiss abuse as ‘just a story’ risks perpetuating the plight of the mistreated child, who often is accused of making things up or inviting molestation. I applaud Brach for finding ways to help those with harrowing childhoods reframe events while remaining loyal to the wounded youngster’s need for validation.

Those of us who suffered abuse were kicked out of the Garden at early ages. Even more than those with more ordinary upbringings, we learned to feel worthless and ashamed. We learned to feel like irritants and toys, like ‘things’ that adults could treat however they wished.

Meditation allows us to approach and heal the dreadful feelings that remain after these torments. We must proceed gently and with great caution, but we can begin to work with the core agony that remains, and to explore the still-inflamed emotional wounds. We can quit feeling like frightened children running from deeply embedded monsters, and instead face our demons as the seasoned adults we have become. From there, we can begin to rediscover our purity and innocence, our childhood passion and budding joy. We can acknowledge the scars left by mistreatment, but let go of the mistaken belief that they define us.

Addendum (7 July 2010): The meditation teacher called to explain her meaning. As I’d suspected, she did not intend to downplay the impact of trauma on my or anyone’s history. On the other hand, she points out, people fall into habitual patterns when remembering their lives. These fixed ways of seeing the past can become boxes from which we have a hard time escaping. I certainly agree that on top of the factual events that haunt me there is an overlay of interpretation, as well as a fear that the past dooms me to an unhappy future. This accretion is not ‘truth’, and it is not helpful. The overlay indeed must be recognized as false and constraining, and it must be challenged. The teacher says she now questions the use of the word ‘story’ in this situation. Since that word gets used so often by Buddhists in describing the limitations of thought, it may be hard to abandon. But there is a definite need to distinguish between historical fact, which usually must be acknowledged and accepted in order to heal, and the retrospective myths the mind constructs around past events. The myths can and should be countered with healthier (or fewer) interpretations.

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ACCEPTING THE HEART’S HARLOTS

I make this choice:
I luxuriate with my harem of heartaches.

Why not wrap arms around Grief?
She looks so hungry and pitiful with her empty hands,
And she never leaves me.

Why not kiss the cheek of Sorrow,
And savor the brine in her bottomless well of tears?

I admit to massaging Frustration’s shoulders.
He is beefy and buff and his muscles cry out for kneading.

I embrace the ancient frame of Rage.
Yes, I hug him as he shudders in my arms.

I let Confusion nibble my fingertips as I comb out her curls
While her brother, Doubt, leans heavily against my back.

And I snuggle with Disgust,
Though he drools and mutters when he naps.

Shame and I share a mattress under the white moon.
She’s a naughty lover who hogs the bedclothes.

I admit to exploring the furrows of my wounds,
And to caressing the thighs of Fear as they tremble like two captured fawns.

Sometimes, when I stroke the eyebrows of Regret,
She points out sunflowers along my path.

So I make this choice:
I offer a bouquet to my Catastrophe.
I honor my Decay, my Fractures, and my Pettiness.

Yes, I accept my ridiculous Fate.
I accept my Bereavement and my Terror.

I won’t shun the beast of my Despair.
I will mend its lame forepaw.
I know it is the mascot of my Dissatisfaction,
But it is also the defender of my Dreams.

I make this choice.

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Very often a person who suffers a major setback later describes the once-bitter cup as a fount of unexpected rewards. The loss of a job leads to an enthralling new career. The dreadful illness guides a patient to unprecedented fulfillment helping others with the same disease. Bereavement opens the heart to awareness of the fragility and preciousness of each day alive.

Suffering leads to growth; we see this all the time. One year of hardship will do more to mature a person than a decade of ease. Those who have suffered little often have trouble understanding those in pain. Tragedy releases wellsprings of wisdom, empathy, and art.

Yet we bridle against loss and injury. We grasp desperately for security, and yearn for freedom from depression and grief. We take drugs or overwork. We distract ourselves with orgasms and shallow entertainments. We accumulate possessions and bank accounts as hedges against want. We even fear the only thing certain in life: death. The core of western living is a ceaseless and futile battle against the inevitability of loss.

Sorrow is not a demon. Those who can embrace uncertainty and impermanence, and stand ground as what they fear approaches, are the strongest and most peaceful among us. Sorrow is a teacher.

Grief is not the only emotion of value, or the only source of understanding. But when we quit running from pain and loss we find they connect us with the human condition, help us deeply appreciate every moment of happiness, and enrich our souls. Sorrow is not the enemy of a fulfilling life. Instead, it is the shadow that highlights the bright outlines of joy.

It took me five decades to accept what I’ve known all along: many of my most painful experiences were also the most valuable. I now recognize my cruel and grief-stricken upbringing as the crucible that tempered the most sensitive aspects of my personality. Adult losses and humiliations that once threatened to crush my spirit now look like crucial pruning.

I don’t mean to romanticize the process. Much of my life felt like hell as it happened. But all that remains, and all that ever remains, is the current moment. From the vantage of the insistent present I look back on all my disappointments, and foresee much pain that I will likely someday suffer, and understand loss and sorrow as mentors that awaken me to the human drama. What’s more, they have opened my eyes to the eternal equality of sweetness and tragedy in life.

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My previous essay promoted acceptance as a sure path to inner peace, and as a route to transcend the concept of mental illness. By fully embracing our lives, and ourselves, we are freed from the misery that comes from wishing things to be different.

For instance, depression is uncomfortable, but one can live perfectly well while feeling quite low. Only when we fight against the sadness, and judge ourselves because of it, do we find ourselves hating life. If we can accept the darkest depths of our mood swings, and move through them with grace, we can find satisfaction, fascination, and even inspiration in our experience.

Unfortunately, our culture does not endorse this view. Everywhere we look we see the message that a successful life is a happy one. Electronic screens of all sizes show us smiling, beautiful people loving life. How could one ever believe that a person who often gets flooded by tears and sadness is succeeding in modern society? Can we imagine those lovely models crippled by anxious worries? In real life, of course, the models probably suffer just like the rest of us, but on the screen all is happiness and light.

From the earliest ages we are led to discount the texture and wisdom that come with disappointment, injury, and bereavement. Sadness, we are told, is for losers. Yet some of the greatest artists and innovators have been burdened with depression and other so-called psychiatric symptoms. If these feelings are so awful and destructive, how come they occur so regularly in the greatest minds?

Acceptance does not mean acquiescence to injustice or destruction. It simply means living with full understanding, and without hating any part of our experience. If we can act to prevent future harm, we should do so. But whatever injury has already occurred is now part of the universe. Resisting it only creates tension and dissatisfaction; it does not change established reality. Whatever is here in this moment can be embraced, even if our intention is to prevent anyone else from suffering a similar fate. By accepting our current lives and minds, we can grow and learn and teach. Despite the pain, loss, and sorrow, we can enjoy this brief time we have to live as humans.

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What would good mental health look like? Would we be happy all the time? Would we be happy sometimes, neutral much of the time, and depressed or anxious just a little? Or would we be exactly as depressed, anxious, or overexcited as we are now, but feel better about it?

It’s good to have a goal in mind. If we want mental peace, we should be ready to know it when we find it. Daniel Siegel defines mental health as integration, which he divides into nine domains. It is worth reading his work (here’s one example), because he offers a well-thought-out perspective on the objective of mental health work.

But a simpler definition might be: “accepting who we are.” If we accept ourselves on the deepest levels, then we no longer hate anything that goes on in our minds. We could be depressed, negative, and discouraged. We could be anxious and biting our nails. We could be flying high, sleeping little, and filled with jagged energy. If we accept our experience, we will not be miserable, no matter how challenging the pain.

This is not to say we should give up trying to be better people. We can always improve in our relationships, in our selflessness, and in our appreciation of life’s miracle.

But if we feel really ‘OK’ with who we are, we will be starting from a place of respect for our situation and ourselves. Working to modulate our actions and thoughts from this solid ground will lead us more quickly to better relationships and better attitudes. By accepting where we are now, we will likely begin to feel less depressed, anxious, and pressured. But we will not be improving our inner mental health, because with true acceptance we will already possess transcendent peace. We will see our angst for what it is: surface agitation. We will know ourselves for who we are: deeply centered beings observing life from the depths of consciousness. We will be at peace, and we will know we are not mentally ill in any meaningful sense of the term.

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In reading about Acceptance & Commitment Therapy (ACT), mindfulness, and other subjects, the concept of the watcher comes up often. The terms vary; other names for this entity include the observer, the true self, and simply consciousness. Quakers call it the still, small voice within.

Isn’t it odd the way something important about yourself can be discounted until you’re finally ready to deal with it? For years I’ve recognized that part of me is aware of my mistakes even as I make them. Often, when I’m about to do something ill-advised, an inner voice will comment: “that’s a dumb move, but you’re going to make it anyway, aren’t you?” Long ago, back when I still consumed alcohol, I would watch myself pour another drink knowing full well that my behavior was already edging out of bounds. Or I would say something unkind to a lover, knowing that it was uncalled for and would lead to a big blow-up. This observing part of my mind has always been wise, but until recently it remained largely passive. It seldom took the reins and averted disaster. As a result, I disregarded the watcher within. It seemed like a prudish and annoying sibling, quick to point out my folly but slow to assist. Only recently did I recognize that this watcher is my truest and strongest self.

Early on, I heard the watcher as a voice speaking words because nothing else penetrated my awareness. But the soul’s natural language is stillness. These days, by listening to its silent voice, I understand the observer better, and I am able to more frequently align myself with its resonant peace. Unfortunately, in my most despairing moments I still feel locked in a mind that convulses with regret, fear, and self-loathing, while the watcher seems far away and unable to help. In the midst of severe emotional upheaval, I have yet to find reliable refuge in my calm, silent center. Even so, I am glad that in lesser states of distress I align with the observer fairly often.

Surprisingly, the occasionally intense pain I feel in my neck has helped me find solace in my soul. As I’ve explained in past entries, severe spinal arthritis ended my surgical career. Physical pain has plagued me for years, and the experience is made worse when the discomfort reminds me of how I lost my former occupation. When that happens, I feel a hollow, nauseating sensation in my stomach in addition to the hot, gnawing ache in my neck. The pain is almost never completely absent, and sometimes its severity makes it difficult to concentrate on anything else. For several years I used narcotic pain relievers; they lessened the discomfort, but caused a new suite of problems. Before long the only time I felt good (physically or emotionally) was shortly after I took the pills; my life revolved around waiting for the next dose and the next relief. These days I take only Tylenol, and the pain is unending, though variable.

I describe the pain so I can show how it has taught me to adopt an observing stance. In times of severe neck discomfort, identifying with the watcher allows me to sidestep a lot of suffering. I can feel the pain, but in a detached and accepting way. There is a point at the very top of my head where the pain doesn’t reach, and I observe my body’s discomfort from there. Although the shift in perspective is difficult to describe, watching the pain from a distance is far better than living in its midst. For some reason, the observer stance is easier for me to adopt when the pain arises from physical rather than emotional sources, but having learned watching skills with physical pain, I can apply them to emotional distress.

Although I still get swept away by the most powerful emotional storms, I’m improving in my ability to watch feelings without losing myself in drama. The other day I found myself in a whirlpool of distress. Because I am taking fewer psychiatric drugs, my emotions are more easily and more powerfully triggered. Shortly after an upsetting situation, I found myself awash in tears and practically convulsing with anguish. Then, for a short time, I moved into what I call the ‘watchtower.’ From a safe distance, I observed the emotional turmoil. I fully acknowledged the frustration and fear, yet I did so from a wise and detached perspective; my awareness centered in the observer, not the observed. Because it was the first time I’ve successfully established a watching stance in such despair, the moment was brief, and I was soon swept back into the roiling currents. But I enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet clarity.

Without doubt, if I stay committed to watching rather than living emotional distress, my skills will improve. My practice of detaching from physical pain will generalize into an ability to separate myself from all forms of suffering, including the emotional hurricanes that have always been features of my psychic weather patterns. Who would have guessed that the neck disease that ruined my old life would provide me the key to peace in my new one?

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Those visitors who expressed reservations about the finality of my spiritual enlightenment had just cause for concern. For two weeks after my supposed awakening, a newfound clarity made life easy and rewarding. Thoughts of helping seemed natural, and I enjoyed abundant energy for my mission of guiding others away from depression. But then reality intruded on my peace. My wife and I live adjacent to San Francisco Bay, very close to sea level. As rainy weather continued for weeks, I began to hate the damp cold. When the sun wasn’t obscured by rain clouds, it shone only dimly through a low shroud of mist, and the shadowy light began to get me down. Unwisely, I discontinued one of my medications after months of slow tapering. Prompted by someone else’s comment, which had little to do with my situation, I became obsessed with futile thoughts of reentering medicine. And then there was the lukewarm (at best) reception of my new ideas about how to alleviate depression; no one in either my day-to-day life or on the internet seemed particularly interested. It turned out to be more than my fragile psyche could bear.

The low feelings were tolerable for about a week. During that time my thinking remained balanced, and I patiently waited for the cycle to play itself out. I endeavored to meditate consistently and stay centered. But finally the downward pressure on my spirits overcame me. Yesterday it took all my strength just to drag myself to the gym for thirty minutes. As used to be routine, I found myself wondering, “what’s the point?” Having sunk to this level frustrated me all the more because I know better. What happened to my insights into the true nature of human life? Where went the new alignment of my priorities? Meditating on the unity and rightness of the cosmos brought only temporary wisdom and peace. By yesterday the depression had progressed into a suicidal realm. I simply could not let go of obsessions about my flawed personality, my lack of productivity, my chronic isolation, and my unpromising future. Self. Self. Self.

It would be nice to say everything feels fine today. I would love to announce that selflessness has returned with the same forceful clarity as before; certainly, I am closer that goal. But it’s an uphill battle. It makes me revisit my old conviction that a chemical imbalance contributes to my unhappiness. Perhaps there are depressed corners in my brain that ego suppression won’t always reach. I resist that conclusion for now, and continue to work on regaining that thrilling and heartfelt understanding of my true nature. I hope to reconnect with my recent, stirring awareness of the transience of my problems, and the importance of altruism. If intention is enough, I will get better. Things do seem a little lighter today.

Of course, today the sun also shines outside my window, and I enjoy a nice view of water, wetlands, and little Mt. Burdell in the distance. That alone helps alleviate the heaviness. (The picture heading this post was taken through my window just now, in late afternoon light.)

It’s a good sign that I’m here writing. For several days there seemed to be little point. Even with my posts occasionally appearing at PsychCentral, there has been scant evidence to suggest that my message is catching on. For several days before today, every session at the computer ended with the thought, “why bother?” I felt overwhelmed by the fact that blogs are inefficient at attracting readers, and the necessity of delivering my message on Facebook instead. That site doesn’t appeal to me, and the idea of aggressively finding ‘friends’ is unpleasant, to say the least. I’ve toyed with abandoning writing on the internet altogether.

But now I’m back. It helps to let go of all attachment to ‘carrying a message’. Soon after my transcendent experiences, it seemed absolutely vital for me to spread the word that depression can be lightened by escaping ego dominance. Today, I can accept that my role may simply be to enjoy the fruits of that truth. I am more able to accept that I may lack the personality, skills and energy needed to educate others. In fact, right now it feels like I’m under a spiritual mandate to experience exactly these limitations, without resistance. It is an important, though painful lesson.

It comes with an interesting twist. I see more than the mere acceptance of failure; I understand the need to keep trying in spite of it.

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