Chapter 5: How Meditation Helps with Depression – Feb 2013

This is the next chapter in my meditation memoir on how a regular practice helped me with depression.

Transcript

Chapter 5 February 2013 February arrived and though the heaviness of my depression had lifted,

I was still lugging around my resentment about that stupid photograph.

Whenever I would bring it up with Ira,

I would also tack on other bullet points of aggravation.

He was still planning his trip despite my protest.

He was still refusing to care for his health,

Which was deteriorating notably courtesy of the diabetes he failed to properly address,

As well as respiratory issues relating to a rare congenital condition that left all of his cilia paralyzed,

Which,

Among other things,

Caused some extreme lung problems.

These things hurt me too.

I hated watching him suffer,

Especially because much of the suffering was unnecessary and could be alleviated with better self-care and doctor visits,

But Ira hated going to the doctor.

I also hated that the diabetes totally killed his libido.

It had been years since he'd had any interest in sex.

While thankfully there are no recordings of times I harped on him,

Which to him probably felt like every three minutes,

Likely to his ears it sounded like this.

I am so sick of you not taking care of yourself and going away without me and not having sex with me and by the way I still hate that photograph and when will a man ever truly love me and furthermore screw you and oh yeah screw you and did I mention screw you and by the way I know you don't believe me when I say I'm really truly totally absolutely going to figure out how to really break up with you one day but trust me buddy that day is coming and I will be so out of here and you will so miss me when I'm gone.

Not exactly in the running for queen of romance and compassion right?

I know owning my bitchiness now is not the same as if I'd avoided going to that place then,

But bitchy was how I felt,

Who I was,

And what I exhibited far more often than I like to admit.

Being with someone who so clearly contributes to his own deterioration prompted such frustration,

Such sadness,

Such anger in me.

The more he refused to deal with his health and come up with a less hurtful travel plan,

The more I tried to control him.

The question arose from multiple sources,

Me,

My friends,

And even Ira.

Why was I staying in this relationship about which it seemed I only ever complained anymore?

I had some pretty solid answers to that question.

Among them,

Number one,

There is a study that explains breaking up is so painful in part because two people have created a cache of memories and emotions that is unique to their relationship.

Neither can have the full memory without the other person.

A breakup means those memories are amputated and trying to conjure them alone invites phantom pains the parts that went missing when your other went away.

How true this rang and rings still of my time with Ira.

We had our own lexicon of stupid jokes,

Verbal shorthand,

Inappropriate nicknames for others,

And endless memories and physical souvenirs of our travels around the world.

Ending our relationship would be to relegate all that to some murky,

Slurry purgatory of the mind only the two of us could fully access by getting together to share our co-recollections,

Which of course I would not want to,

Because if I left him then as I told us both,

I was going to fully extract myself and cut him off.

Number two,

For all the aggravation being with Ira caused me,

I could not argue that he was funny,

Brilliant,

Dedicated,

And tolerant.

It's easy for me to sit here and pick him apart for his flaws and shortcomings,

But I'll be the first to tell you that dealing with my shit isn't exactly reminiscent of enjoying a short line day at Disney World.

There is the anxiety,

The PTSD,

The depression,

The super complicated and chaotic family of origin stuff,

A calendar packed with enough ongoing activities to exhaust the Russian army,

And a roster of friends that numbers in the high hundreds.

I rememberized my life,

Past and present.

He gamely joined me at all sorts of events,

Even the ones he knew would bore him to death.

Or times he just couldn't hack attending another social engagement.

He did not begrudge me heading out on my own.

He had a strong independent streak and he honored my strong independent streak.

All of which is to say that underneath the growing twin peaks of bullshit and consternation that overshadowed our relationship,

He really truly did love me,

And I really truly did love him.

Number three,

I come from a long line of martyrs.

We take till death do us part more than seriously.

I think my two divorces prompted such anguish in me not because I was parting ways with the dudes,

One a sociopathic nut job,

The other a raging narcissist,

But way more because I had failed to hang in there to the grave,

Which I had promised to do,

And damn it,

I am a woman of my word.

Technically Ira and I weren't married,

But we were legally bound by our domestic partnership,

And I felt a dedication to him that came with the duty to hang in there no matter what.

Yes,

I absolutely hated not having my physical needs met,

But what if I had a condition that killed my libido and he walked out on me?

Despite a growing desire to leave,

I also felt extremely strongly about the need to stay to figure it out,

To work it out,

To care for him.

And number four,

I still did not know with certainty,

Even at the age of 49,

Exactly what I wanted in my life.

I knew some of the things I wanted,

And these I had,

A great job,

A great kid grown up to be a great man,

Great friendships,

And multiple creative outlets.

And I knew a lot of what I didn't want,

Depression,

Anxiety,

Arguing.

But there were missing pieces.

My relationship with Ira started out as just about all of my relationships had,

A one night stand followed by confusing sex with love which led me,

As always,

To forming an intense attachment way too soon,

An attachment greatly fueled by the enormous relief of knowing that if I stuck with this one and could make it work with him,

That would spare me the nightmare known as dating.

Back to my therapist's office I trotted.

Except for the occasional tune up,

I hadn't gone to see Victoria much over the course of my time with Ira.

But there had been a time in my life when I saw her all the time,

Sometimes two or even three times a week,

And she saved my life,

She truly did,

Mind,

Body,

And spirit.

I'd met her in late 2006 when my second marriage was tanking just after a violent incident that triggered my PTSD.

One night I came home to find all of my planners smashed to bits across the sidewalk and up the front steps.

Inside the house was another crime scene.

Every fragile item I owned had been completely annihilated,

Plates and mugs not merely thrown to the floor but crushed into a fine dust of glass and ceramics into the carpet.

The horrific rage behind this act was evident.

My husband's 22-year-old stepson,

Whom he had raised as a son and who lived in an apartment attached to the house,

Had very methodically and thoroughly reduced to smithereens anything he could find that represented me.

I had to go on anxiety medication just to function.

Plagued by constant panic attacks I could barely leave the house.

And yet the house was so dangerous I couldn't stay there either as just being there,

Knowing his kids would be home soon to begin their attacks anew,

And knowing their father wouldn't defend me,

Inspired crazy visions of taking myself out.

I felt so utterly violated by the violent attack on everything in that house that was mine,

The clear message that it was me he wanted to actually crush,

That I took to referring to my husband's destructive stepson as the rapist,

Which naturally did nothing to help the situation,

And contributed to their father turning against me,

Just as surely as I would have turned against him had he assigned such a title to my son.

The entire situation was so utterly fubar,

With so much fury pouring out of so many people,

It really is a wonder no one got killed during the time we spent together under one roof.

Leaving behind two of my three dogs at this hell house,

Though I feared for their lives as his stepson had also torn down the back fence in hopes the dogs would escape and be hit and killed by a car,

I took my soul dog Bubbles,

A stray Boston Terrier mix I had adopted during happier times,

And temporarily moved into a residence hotel until I could figure out how to sort through the nightmare of my life and move back into my own house across town,

Which necessitated giving the current tenants fair notice.

A friend recommended a therapist and I made an appointment.

That therapist,

Let's call her Jerkface,

Was a petite and prim package of rottenness,

Her little body enrobed in her little business suit,

Her little pump and sconce feet perched on her little footstool as she frowned a little frowned at me when I pulled out my knitting during our first session.

She announced that knitting was not okay while we talked and did not give a rat's ass that it calmed me.

Fool that I was,

I came back for another meeting with her,

This time bringing along my then husband.

While she did not say the sentence,

You must get divorced,

After listening to us for a few minutes,

She made this opinion clear enough.

In her estimation,

There was no way we could salvage our relationship.

With this proclamation,

I had yet another panic attack,

Cried until I could not breathe and shook uncontrollably.

What right did she have to say such a thing?

And who cares that time would prove her right?

I went to her to try to save my marriage,

Not get a toe tag for it.

Even if she was able to see it was over,

I needed someone who could walk me through the reality of my situation and show me the math so I could clearly comprehend the truth.

I drove away from that second meeting with her howling,

Thinking I might never try therapy again.

But another friend gently urged me to call her therapist,

Victoria.

Reluctantly,

Pessimistically,

I punched the number into my phone and left an exhausted voicemail.

When Victoria called back,

She listened to the melodramatic bullet points of my story.

If she was flinching on her end of the line,

This did not come through in her tone,

Which was gentle and non-judging.

She asked me to please consider coming to see her,

That I could look at our first meeting as an interview,

And that if I decided never to come back,

That would be okay.

My feral,

Nodded heart took a tentative sniff and then another.

These words of hers smelled authentic.

I wanted to take a little step towards her.

I also wanted to dive under the porch of misery and not get anywhere near her.

In the end,

I agreed to a meeting.

When I am very old,

If I am lucky enough to get to be very old,

And sitting in my rocking chair and recalling the very good choices I made in my life,

Going that first time to see Victoria will top the list.

When I arrived and sat down in her office,

A bit of a time machine with its decor,

Leaving me feeling like I was in the 70s,

Beginning with the huge macrame tree of life in the waiting area and continuing on into her space with its old carpet and worn out over-stuffed leather chairs.

I blurted out almost immediately that jerkface forbade me from knitting.

You knit?

She exclaimed.

I bead.

From that moment on,

Our sessions resembled a cross between a hippie arts and crafts gathering and what I came to term emo chemo.

I'd be slumped over,

Bawling my eyes out,

And working on a scarf.

She'd sit across from me listening,

Offering Kleenex,

And making necklaces.

We developed an unspoken but clear agreement that allowed her,

As needed and requested by me,

To re-parent me in addition to counseling me.

The best example I can offer of this came the night my then-husband showed up for a session.

It was February 1,

2007.

He'd reluctantly shown up a few other times,

Never with the interest of actually working on any of our problems,

Always just to hear the sound of his own voice.

This night would have been hard regardless,

As just the day before my great friend and mentor,

Well-known political columnist Molly Ivins,

Had succumbed to cancer.

While I hold there is never a good time to show up at therapy and announce with no warning that you are out and that's that,

I speak from real life experience when I say that to do such a thing 24 hours after your spouse loses a loved one is truly,

Truly a shithead move.

Which of course did not stop the narcissist.

He extracted a piece of paper from his pocket and read a note describing how I was too weak to make the right decision,

That he was leaving and that I had two choices,

A separation of indeterminate length over which he would be the sole decider or a flat-out divorce.

I felt like he hit me in the head with a shovel as I struggled to comprehend the blah,

Blah,

Blah coming out of his cruel face.

Though this was a nighttime session and surely she was tired from a full day and ready to go home,

Victoria kindly extended our time and let me cry and bore witness as I handed my wedding band to Mr.

Insensitive.

Then after 90 minutes or so she asked him to leave.

When he was gone Victoria got out of her chair,

Came over to me,

Crouched down,

Sat at my feet and held me.

Once I had somewhat regained my ability to breathe I choked out a question.

I already had her opinion as a therapist.

She wanted me to take a close look and consider if this man I thought I loved was really just another blowhard old self-centered hippie.

Now I asked,

If you were my mother what would you say?

I'd pay for your lawyer,

She replied,

Unhesitant.

In the months that followed,

Some weeks I'd show up multiple times as she patiently listened to me enumerate the same grievances again and again and again.

Once I called her as I headed to perform a wedding,

Unsure if I,

Mid-divorce and distraught,

Could make it through.

Tirelessly,

She worked with me until I felt better,

Or at least less worse,

And began to piece my life back together.

Because I was having so much fun when I first got together with Ira,

Just weeks after my divorce became official,

I slowed down my work with Victoria.

Then I drifted away.

During more serious arguments with Ira I would return for a session or two and emotional tune up,

Work to regain my bearings.

Now I was ready to resume regular therapy.

I wanted Ira to go with me.

Ira always balked at previous requests that he attend a session or two to help us work through problems.

This time though my ultimatum was real.

Getting him to Victoria's office was one thing.

Getting him to truly participate,

However,

Was something else entirely.

He had no interest in discussing ways we could work to heal our differences and salvage our relationship,

And he said as much,

Looking Victoria in the eye.

I'm not interested in working on this,

He announced.

Once again I found myself in the presence of a therapist who,

During a first meeting with my partner and me,

Pronounced our relationship dead.

But the difference between Victoria's assessment and the one Jerkface had made so long ago was that Victoria did know me,

Even if she did not know Ira beyond my version of how he was.

More importantly,

I knew Victoria understood that she had my best interest at heart.

This didn't keep me from feeling defiant when she said that if Ira wasn't going to participate then a breakup was imminent,

Because I never met a no I didn't want to spit in the face of.

After that session Ira and I sat in the car and cried together.

We were both emotionally exhausted and he was also physically tired from his worsening health.

Ira,

Stubborn as me,

Also wanted to defy Victoria's diagnosis.

This is how,

At least for the day,

We became a unified front.

We agreed to a date that very night and went to a cool blues club and laughed and flirted like it was our first date.

Victoria wasn't the only one I booked an appointment with that month.

I'd contacted Bart,

Co-owner of Southside Tattoo,

To see about having him ink a copy of some of Henry's childhood art on my arm.

I wanted a visible reminder that 2013 would be a year of healing for me,

Something I could look at daily and carry with me.

Plus,

Spending time with Bart,

Who'd done extensive work on both of my arms already,

Always boosted my happiness,

Beyond the rush of endorphins that kicked in in response to the needles.

We'd first met when I walked into Southside to get what I will term was a classic dumbass tattoo.

It was summer of 2006 and I was newly married.

I tracked down an artist there who'd been voted best tattoo artist in Austin.

We came up with a design,

Which was very large,

Involved a lot of heavy black lines,

And prominently featured the name of my then husband.

I spent most of that session in the artist's workspace only briefly meeting the other artist.

Post divorce,

When my attempts to have the thing laser removed totally failed,

A friend showed me an amazing cover up Bart had done for her and insisted that I see him.

When I arrived for the consultation,

One of the other artists joked cheerfully,

You love it when people get other people's names tattooed on them.

Then,

A dramatic pause,

Because we know they'll be back to get it covered up.

Bart looked at the heavy lines on my arm closely,

Trying to contemplate a fix.

He asked me to list things I really like,

Some ideas for him to possibly work with,

And to a cover up.

I told him dogs and knitting and flowers.

He asked for time to think it over,

Admitting he had his work cut out for him.

Many weeks passed,

Finally he called me in and showed me an elaborate design he dreamt up,

One he was sure would do the trick.

A beautiful combination of colorful flowers,

Black and gray shading,

And a bird of a species Bart had conjured in his own mind,

The artwork looked more than a little promising.

The cover up took several sittings,

14 hours total.

Visiting the shop was always uplifting as Bart,

Handsome,

Heavily inked,

And with a lingering echo of a Canadian accent despite decades of living in Texas,

Runs his business like a combination of a cheerful confessional and a witty salon,

Surrounded by the other artists,

Their clients,

And by friends and former clients who constantly wander in to say hello.

I'd plop down in the chair and we'd get to talking,

And the talking distracted me from the pain which further alleviated by the endorphins coursing through me.

The process was transformative on multiple fronts.

No longer did I have to see my ex's name on my body every day,

A physical reminder of my massive error in marrying him.

There was another change too,

This tattoo marked literally my foray into heavy ink.

I already had two other tattoos,

A small cow on my right arm bearing the caption born to graze and a winged cow on my lower back with holy cow and a scroll beneath her.

But now I had nearly a half sleeve wrapped around my upper left arm.

I fell in love with it immediately,

Design,

Process,

Endorphins,

Finished work.

Because good tattoos are very expensive,

And because Bart's daughter was homeschooling and needed English tutoring,

We struck a deal.

In exchange for his work I began tutoring Opal on her language arts and giving writing lessons to Bart's wife Trixie.

Sometimes I'd stick around for meals,

Feeling the comfort of being accepted and loved by these generous people.

A year after that half sleeve I asked Bart to ink roughly the same area on my right arm.

This time I requested a reproduction of a piece of art Henry had drawn in fourth grade,

A character called a treeple,

Half tree,

Half people,

Very cartoony and cheerful.

Henry,

Eighteen at the time,

Played hooky from school and joined me at the shop.

He signed his name and felt it pen beneath the funny tree and Bart went over it in permanent ink.

I've got a photo of Henry and me that day,

Me fresh out of the chair,

Both of us beaming.

Now I was ready for another permanent installment of my son's art,

A vase with three flowers,

Which he'd drawn also when he was ten,

When we were on a trip to Kitakamakura,

Japan.

The image,

Which Bart placed on the inside of my right forearm,

Symbolized so much for me.

My love of my son,

My love of travel,

And our first international trip.

I chose this image to serve as a visible reminder of my vow to banish depression from my life,

To dedicate an entire year to focusing on healing my mind.

As Bart worked on me our conversation meandered.

When I mentioned my passion for knitting he told me about Koichin sweaters made by the indigenous people in western Canada,

Where he visits each year to give the people of Haidagwai traditional tribal tattoos in a style he had helped revive from near obscurity.

He showed me pictures of these coat heavy sweaters featuring wildlife imagery and wondered if I could make him one.

I thought the pattern is far beyond my skill set because though I am a very good knitter,

Mostly I knit plain things.

Koichin style involved complicated charts.

I liked the idea of a challenge though and wanted to please Bart because he had done so much to make me happy with his art.

I dug around on the internet when I got home and found a woman in Canada who sold Koichin kits.

I ordered one right away.

A huge package arrived the size of a very large trash bag stuffed to near bursting.

The wool,

Known as pencil roving,

Was very peculiar,

Totally foreign to me,

And more resembled strands of fuzzy cotton candy than classically spun yarn.

The task before me seemed daunting,

But then what didn't seem daunting that year?

I added knit a complicated sweater to my list of healing projects,

Hoping that once I got the rhythm of the pattern it would become for me what so many of my knitting projects had been.

A variation of meditation,

The repetition of stitches one after the other,

Like the repetition of breaths in and out,

In and out.

Reviews

I'm listening to this each morning as I do my elliptical workout. I LOVE your candid, un-edited recount of where you were & where you're going! Thank you for the inspiration.😃

Thank you for your wonderful, authentic, honest, well-crafted writing and story-telling. I'm loving listening to your healing story unfold.

This is such a great story of courage resilience and desperation. Its real and many will identify with it even if they can not admit it out loud. Such vulnerability is seldom shared for the greater good.

Thank you so very much for telling your story in such an honest way without that soft-bliss-blabla!!! 💪I can relate to most of your words and will have and want to listen to it again and again! Thanks!!!

Bahahahaha this is so great! Thank you for your honesty, humour and wit! I can't wait to hear the next chapter! :) thank you so much for this!

Great story from a great story teller.

Love your book and rendition, thank you so much, Spike!

I too have been trying desperately to cope with both depression and PTSD for ten very long years. Two months ago, I began daily meditations after deciding that since no one else seemed to be able to help me (or even care), I would fix myself. And amazingly, I have experienced definite improvements!! I recently came across your readings from your book and I have been SO encouraged! Unbeknownst to you, your stories (strikingly similar to mine...right down to the bummer narcissistic ex) are helping me to meditate my way out of this hell. Thank you so much and keep those chapters coming!!

I love your honesty thank you for sharing your story.

You made a point the really flipped a light switch for me today. Thanks for the insight!

Another great chapter!