"In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus
Due to a myriad of what could be considered
"negative events" happening in and around my life lately, I don't think I've been my happy, snarky, giggly self: at least not as much as usual.
My father's latest hospitalization due to severe mental illness really knocked me to the ground. I don't know why this time it affected me so much more than the others, but it truly did. After 2 serious suicide attempts in a 2-year period, he's been in and out of hospitals, been on a colorful array of drugs, received electroshock therapy, worked with fantastic social workers and group homes, but has continued to convinced himself he's not worth saving. He cannot function anymore on his own, and is a ghost of the man I once knew; a man I considered not just a father, but my best friend. Five years ago we shared laughs and beers and inappropriate jokes and family memories. Now he barely speaks, and when he does, it's a meshing of self-hate and despair. It's a hard pill to swallow.
Usually when these "sour times" and speedbumps happen in our lives, we use different tactics for dealing with them: some bury them and become assholes to the outside world, others wear their hearts on their sleeve and announce their woes to whoever will listen.
And then there are those who allow themselves to experience the struggle, share a little, and deal with and control the issues, riding it out while trying to maintain some sanity.
I am trying my darnedest to be the last option. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. It probably doesn't help that I have surrounded myself with an array of dark and depressing artistic influences, especially within music and books. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer, not in the least; but lately listening to poptastic explosions like Kylie Minogue and reading "hilarious" short stories just feels...fake and gross.
I think I've reached my limit of the dreary after my latest read, Albert Camus' The Stranger. Camus, being the existentialist that he is, created a simple and complicated book about a "morally corrupt" young man named Meursault who drifts through life feeling and caring for nothing, eventually commits a murder, and is ultimately executed due to his obvious moral emptiness and lack of attachment to anything, including his own existence.
Meursault has no drive, no compassion, no emotion. Not until the final moments of his life does he finally realize what gives him peace. He is godless, he is morally bankrupt; but somewhere in his heart he recognizes that something is in there, that made him love things like mornings on the ocean, his lover's laugh, the sky fading into a deep twilight, cooling everything down and clearing his mind, bringing him peace. For this life, however, it's too late for this realization.
I mentioned to my dad this morning that I'm reading this book, as he was a fellow English major and is familiar with Camus. I told him that I don't want it to be too late for hi
m. There are so many parts of life that he enjoys, but he's forgotten how to see them. I'm so glad I read this book.
I cannot imagine how meaningless life would seem without all the little things that make it worth living, which is I think what truly makes it difficult for me. Simple things, like driving down the road on a sunny day with your windows down, or waking up in the morning to the smell of rain. I don't think he remembers any of those things anymore, or how to recognize them when they're right in front of him.
We all try and help him remember. But after all the drugs and therapy and people helping him, he has to want to do it.
And through all this, I have to remember all of those amazing, important parts of life as well. How my dogs are total dorks and make me laugh uncontrollably, or how I feel after a live show that's touched me on levels I didn't even know existed. Most importantly, the family and friends in my life who have watched this whole thing unfold with my dad, and have been such an amazing support to me, always reminding me how important it is to stay happy and take care of myself. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So, as much as I love sad stuff sometimes, I think it's time to put the Bon Iver and Morrissey away for a while, and read the latest David Sedaris. It's what humor is intended for: regaining sanity.
My father's latest hospitalization due to severe mental illness really knocked me to the ground. I don't know why this time it affected me so much more than the others, but it truly did. After 2 serious suicide attempts in a 2-year period, he's been in and out of hospitals, been on a colorful array of drugs, received electroshock therapy, worked with fantastic social workers and group homes, but has continued to convinced himself he's not worth saving. He cannot function anymore on his own, and is a ghost of the man I once knew; a man I considered not just a father, but my best friend. Five years ago we shared laughs and beers and inappropriate jokes and family memories. Now he barely speaks, and when he does, it's a meshing of self-hate and despair. It's a hard pill to swallow.
Usually when these "sour times" and speedbumps happen in our lives, we use different tactics for dealing with them: some bury them and become assholes to the outside world, others wear their hearts on their sleeve and announce their woes to whoever will listen.
And then there are those who allow themselves to experience the struggle, share a little, and deal with and control the issues, riding it out while trying to maintain some sanity.
I am trying my darnedest to be the last option. Sometimes succeeding, sometimes not. It probably doesn't help that I have surrounded myself with an array of dark and depressing artistic influences, especially within music and books. I don't want to be a Debbie Downer, not in the least; but lately listening to poptastic explosions like Kylie Minogue and reading "hilarious" short stories just feels...fake and gross.
I think I've reached my limit of the dreary after my latest read, Albert Camus' The Stranger. Camus, being the existentialist that he is, created a simple and complicated book about a "morally corrupt" young man named Meursault who drifts through life feeling and caring for nothing, eventually commits a murder, and is ultimately executed due to his obvious moral emptiness and lack of attachment to anything, including his own existence.
Meursault has no drive, no compassion, no emotion. Not until the final moments of his life does he finally realize what gives him peace. He is godless, he is morally bankrupt; but somewhere in his heart he recognizes that something is in there, that made him love things like mornings on the ocean, his lover's laugh, the sky fading into a deep twilight, cooling everything down and clearing his mind, bringing him peace. For this life, however, it's too late for this realization.
I mentioned to my dad this morning that I'm reading this book, as he was a fellow English major and is familiar with Camus. I told him that I don't want it to be too late for hi
m. There are so many parts of life that he enjoys, but he's forgotten how to see them. I'm so glad I read this book.I cannot imagine how meaningless life would seem without all the little things that make it worth living, which is I think what truly makes it difficult for me. Simple things, like driving down the road on a sunny day with your windows down, or waking up in the morning to the smell of rain. I don't think he remembers any of those things anymore, or how to recognize them when they're right in front of him.
We all try and help him remember. But after all the drugs and therapy and people helping him, he has to want to do it.
And through all this, I have to remember all of those amazing, important parts of life as well. How my dogs are total dorks and make me laugh uncontrollably, or how I feel after a live show that's touched me on levels I didn't even know existed. Most importantly, the family and friends in my life who have watched this whole thing unfold with my dad, and have been such an amazing support to me, always reminding me how important it is to stay happy and take care of myself. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.
So, as much as I love sad stuff sometimes, I think it's time to put the Bon Iver and Morrissey away for a while, and read the latest David Sedaris. It's what humor is intended for: regaining sanity.
2 comments:
yes!, the latest david sedaris is so definitely worth reading. as are all of his books...it's funny, I've read "the stranger," and "the fall" by camus, during the same time that I was reading a bunch of nabokov, and bukowski...and at the time, all the angst and exploration of the darker side of the human psyche was exactly what I needed. at the time I loved all of those books enough to add them to my favorites. but now, I can't even say that I remember the plots very well...it was very much like sitting in a pub and drinking and talking with strangers who were feeling what I was feeling, extremely comforting for the time, but not providing lasting comfort. sedaris, on the other hand, makes me laugh out loud on the subway and find actual joy even in the darkness...that's what I love about him...he doesn't bypass the darkness, just makes it hilarious. he's made his way into the circle of writers that I consider literary "friends," in a way that camus and nabokov never did or could. in this latest book, "the smoking section" is priceless. it all is, but that especially.
love you lady, you are always in my thoughts.
love,
becca
hey T i agree with you that during trying times, thinking about the small stuff and what really matters keeps us sane. I hope your Dad realizes how much he is loved and how lucky he is to have a daughter like you in his life.
Whenever I go through a tough period, I always turn to my books to immerse myself in. Specially the supposed "hilarious" ones.
Take Care.
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