So, yesterday, we left off talking about fatigue, suicide and the play “‘night, Mother.” Today, we’re going to start with Greek myths. (It’s been awhile. You’d forgotten that I jump around like that, hadn’t you?)

I believe that I may have mentioned King Sisyphus before. His story is one of my favorites and one that I think is applicable across many circumstances.

There are a couple of different versions of the story; but, the main point is that Sisyphus pissed Zeus off and, as punishment, spent eternity pushing a huge boulder up a hill all day, every day only to have it roll back to the bottom every night. Sisyphus was condemned to an eternity of labor that he could never successfully complete. He was to spend all time fighting a battle that he could not win.

As I said, I don’t know the answers for all who make the tragic choice to end their lives; but, for those with chronic depression, I have an idea and I don’t think it has anything to do with cowardice. Even more than in Jessie’s case from yesterday, I think that it’s really more a question of the frustration of fighting a battle that can never be won and the sheer exhaustion of waging the battle at all.

Chronic depression is a monster that lives in the sufferer’s brain – all the time. It’s not situational. It’s not transient. It’s permanent. It’s constant. Modern medications can keep it on chain and under control – when they are working. If a depression trigger is flipped, the meds may not be as effective, loosening the chains, allowing the monster to move around a little bit, make a good bit of noise, throw the depressed off balance and give everyone a nice little scare. From time to time, however, meds may stop working completely or the sufferer may not be able to afford them. In those cases, the monster gets off chain and the true terror begins.

I’m sure that there are many who kill themselves at this point since perceptions are so skewed and horrifying. However, I believe that more danger comes not during the crisis, but just afterward, when the sufferer realizes that the monster will always be there. They can fight it (and they will have to) for the rest of their lives, but they will never win. The monster will always be there, waiting in the dark recesses, waiting for the chains to loosen, waiting to break free. Fighting it takes courage, sure. But, more than courage, it takes energy. The endeavor is Sisyphean in the extreme – ultimately useless effort and unending frustration. At some point, the sufferer may just become too tired.

From the outside, it may appear that the depressed should just “get busy living or get busy dying.” From the inside, it’s not that easy. The sufferer is, in many respects, trapped between the two states of truly living and actually dying.

The daily battle of the chronically depressed is more pervasive and braver than a non-sufferer can know. The choice to end that battle is not a cowardly one and has nothing to do with anyone other than the depressed. If someone dear to you has chronic depression of any kind – bipolar, unipolar, whatever-polar – love them, be there for them, watch them for signs of fatigue.

Don’t bother looking for cowardice. For, with the fight they wage every day, you’ll find none.

For another view, see Hyperbole and a Half: Depression, Part Two.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve seen these Bravelets on Facebook several times and, while I applaud the idea behind them and the many battles they signify, they strike me as being a little off the mark as far as suicide goes.

Let me say plainly – I applaud the idea behind the bracelets and this piece is in NO WAY intended as criticism or discouragement of any kind. The jewelry just made me start thinking and I now share those thoughts with you.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, I know personally and know of more people who have committed suicide than I know people who have died from both car wrecks and cancer combined. Maybe that says something about my demographic, I don’t know; but, I don’t think so. We have all these public service announcements about vehicular safety and we raise millions for cancer research. Where are the PSAs for suicide awareness? Where are the suicide awareness and prevention walks, marathons, and telethons? While there are more of them than there were even five years ago, there still aren’t many.

We don’t want to talk about self murder. So, we don’t. We stick our heads in the sand and pretend it’s not real. Unaddressed, the problem grows. We simply must have this conversation.

I’ll start.

There is surely no one cause for suicide – there is no one tipping point, no common “straw that broke the camel’s back,” no single thing that causes people to choose to end their own lives. Often, the decision is put down to weakness or cowardice. I think it’s insulting to the victims and their loved ones to suggest that it’s that simple.

As humans, we want reasons. We need Why. I’ve heard some suggestions, even, that we invented religion to satisfy our innate need for causality. (And, lemme make clear that the whole question of religion is a great big can of worms that we ain’t even gonna think about opening up here. Like, ever. I’m way too “live and let live” for that.) With respect to death in general, we often ask for a Why? In the case of what is perceived as premature death and certainly in the case of self-murder, we clamor for one.

In Marsha Norman’s play, “‘night, Mother,” the suicidal Jessie says:

“Mama, I know you used to ride the bus. Riding the bus and it’s hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don’t get off is it’s still 50 blocks from where you’re going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride 50 more years and get off then, it’s the same place when I step down to it. Whenever I feel like it, I can get off. As soon as I’ve had enough, it’s my stop. I’ve had enough. “

It’s not that Jessie’s life is so bad, it’s just that she doesn’t see it getting any better and she’s just tired of living it. She wants to get off. Her reason, her causality, her Why is plain, old, unglamorous fatigue. She’s just tired of living her life.

I didn’t see the play. In the late 80s, I saw the insanely powerful movie starring Sissy Spacek and Anne Bancroft. (If you can find it, watch it. It’s wonderfully done and those two women are brilliant.) Other than a general hopelessness that her life was ever going to improve, I don’t recall any other specific reason being given for her fatigue. For many with chronic depression, though, there is a very specific reason for it. We’ll talk about that tomorrow.

Last week, a reader mentioned to me that I haven’t written in awhile. I haven’t abandoned you or the Positive Thinking Blog Goddess. I now work third shift and, frankly, am so tired that I can barely see straight most days. However, the truth is that I write in my head most nights as I work. I just never get around to putting those thoughts down here.

I have learned a great deal over the past few months. I’ve learned a lot about myself – my strengths, weaknesses, prejudices and failings. I’ve learned to see and appreciate things differently. I question much more and, yet, I accept much more. I have much to share with you and many questions to ask. I hope that you will share with me, as well.

I will endeavor to share my thoughts more regularly. I don’t know that I will be Daily Doty; but, I miss you guys! I enjoy sharing my thoughts and getting your feedback in return. so, I will be certainly more than Sporadic Doty. Thanks for bearing with me and for showing up again.

I saw Mariska Hargitay on Katie Couric’s talk show recently. In addition to talking about her 14-year run as Olivia Benson on Law & Order: SVU, the actress talked about her organization – No More. Now that I’ve seen the logo, I often see it in the background on NBC’s long-running show.

I applaud Ms. Hargitay for creating this organization after receiving thousands of letters from victims of sexual assault and domestic violence. I also applaud NBC for promoting the organization so regularly, if subtly. It’s long past time that victims of abuse ceased to be victims of the system that is supposed to protect them.

In addition to watching the PSA embedded below, I urge you to see related No More, VAWA and Joyful Heart Foundation videos on YouTube.

When I was obese, I would hear women with a couple of pounds to lose complain about their weight. My typical response was, “Bless your heart,” which is, of course, Southern for “Seriously? You’re 14 ounces overweight, try being 100 pounds over. Ima need for you to shut the hell up.”

As you know very well, these past months have been a tremendous struggle for me – physically, mentally, emotionally, financially. With the help of friends and better living through chemistry, I’m beginning to get a more realistic perspective on things.

This weekend, I sat in the home I own on a peaceful street, surrounded by my pets (luxuries if ever there were ones). warm in front of my fireplace, enjoying a cup of French vanilla coffee, listening to Renee Fleming. There is plenty of food in my kitchen. I have gasoline in my car, a job that almost lets me make ends meet, a healthy son starting his own life, a new gentleman friend who values my company and whose company I also enjoy. I have plentiful food, warm shelter and clothing, affection and general good health.

In spite of my struggles, there are a great many who could and would very quickly say, “Seriously? Ima need for you to shut the hell up.”

I joined a group on Facebook called Three Weeks of Thankfulness. In spite of the validity of the concept, it’s gotten a little cliche to express gratitude for something every day of November. Everyone seems to do it; so, of course, I don’t. I’m perverse like that. This is different, though – starting the year off with a grateful heart. That sounds like a good way to start this year’s journey to me.

According to group founder Darin Hollingsworth, the protocol is simple:

“There is only one pretty child in the world, and every mother has it.” – Chinese proverb

I used that truth on my son’s high school graduation invitations in 2012. I believed in its veracity then and I believe in it now, particularly when my child recently returned from college for Christmas.

I had not seen him since he walked through security at the Nashville airport on 26 August. When he arrived home for Christmas, I was immediately struck with the physical changes in him.  He just looks so grown! His face has lost the last vestiges of boyishness. At 6’2″, he’s a long way from that 20 inch bundle I first held. In Tacoma, he is going to school, working and has taken up bouldering. In listening to him talk about his friends, his roommates, and their activities, I was reminded of when he was little.

I grew up in a small town where my mother was a teacher and Girl Scout leader. My father was a forester, a deacon in our church, a member of the Civil Defense and helped out with the Boy Scouts from time to time. They knew all of my friends, my potential friends, and (often) the parents of all of these kids. If I talked about a kid at school, my parents probably knew more about the kid than I did. It was different for my son. I remember him talking about kids in his pre-K class and being surprised that I didn’t know them. I didn’t know them and I probably never would.  It was a strange concept to me. The extension of that idea was that my child, who had depended on me for everything, was beginning to develop a life independent from mine. This human being who had literally shared my body and my blood was establishing himself as a truly autonomous being. It blew my mind.

This trip, he arrived at around 11:20 PM. We talked almost non-stop until 3:30. He shared some of his daily activities, but mostly, he shared his thoughts about society, sexism, politics, history and gender issues. He learns new facts in his classes, but, with his friends, he learns, expands, develops and shares concepts. In sharing those with me, he challenges my own notions. Whether or not he changes my mind, the discourse is engaging and energizing. When he was little, I loved rediscovering my world through his eyes. These days, I find myself rediscovering and/or changing my opinions and beliefs when I see them from his point of view.

Listening to how he is maturing makes my heart swell for I am so proud of the man he is choosing to become. Make no mistake, he’s not perfect – and, thank goodness! Who would want that!? But, he is choosing to be socially, environmentally and fiscally aware and responsible. What a thrill to watch his development!

The morning after his arrival, I woke to find him piled up in his bed with the two dogs who seemed to rejoice that their boy was back. Don’t tell the pups, but he’s my boy. Man that he is, he’s my boy, my child, the only pretty one in the world and I have him.

Last year, I threw darts on a team for a few weeks.  I threw them badly, mind you, but I threw them nevertheless. Still, I enjoyed learning the new games and I enjoyed the camaraderie that whole subculture offered to me. I got better as time went on until, at last, other players no longer wore kevlar or feared for their safety. The dart boards were clearly marked and the rules of the games meticulously defined. There was no question what my goals were as a player. The only question was if I had the skill to hit the targeted sections I needed.

As we enter this new year, the same question holds true throughout my life: do I have the skill to hit the targets?

Well, yeah. I just have to define what those targets are and I mean really define them. It’s not enough to say that I want to lose some weight, get healthier, or be more organized. I have to be specific – as specific as hitting a double six with my last dart to close out a game of 501. So, I will share with you the resolutions I am making to myself, the goals I am setting for myself:

• Reduce my size so that I can wear my size six clothes again. (That will actually be the natural result of keeping the following resolutions related to increasing my level of health.)
• Go to the gym at least four days a week.  (I stand or walk a minimum of nine hours each night at work; however, I’m still not getting the aerobic or strength training I need, in spite of what I tell myself.)
• Reduce my diet soda intake to no more than 12 ounces a day.
• Increase my water intake to at least 72 ounces a day.
• Reintroduce an animal protein-free day into my diet each week.
• Reintroduce a fish day into my diet each week.
• Reduce my wheat intake to two servings a week.
• Resume careful portion control and food intake documentation.
• Establish and maintain house, car and dog cleaning schedule.
• Remove useless and/or meaningless objects from my house. (In other words, I’ve got all kinds of crap in my living space and in my attic that does nothing but take up space and give all the dust bunnies a place to hide. That crap’s gotta go. I’m thinking eBay. Thoughts, anyone?)

That’s enough to get me going, don’t you think? I’ve already started on a few of them and am excited to at least have some feeling of order and control in my life again. I’ve got my darts in my hands and am aiming for that triple 20 to make this year a better scoring one that last year.

What are your plans for the new year?

I’m one of those people who wants to know the How and Why of things.  So, finding myself in my current state, I’ve pondered a great deal over the How and Why of it. I have worried my memories to find where I went off the rails. Where did I start making the decisions that have led me to this point in my life – starting over (yet again).

I have a few ideas about it.

When I went to college, I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. (I know, right? I’m a very long way from that.) But, I ran into the roadblock of chemistry.  Let me let you in on a little secret in case you don’t already know: chemistry isn’t science.  It’s math masquerading as science. I am, let’s say, math deficient; so, the dream I’d held since junior high school went down in flames.  I was not strong enough to find a way around the roadblock and I began to drift.

I drifted into a general liberal arts degree.  Now, let me interrupt myself for a minute and talk to any college students who may be reading: Make sure your advisor knows who you are and gives a damn about your future. My advisor did neither and told me – a clueless student – that a general liberal arts degree was marketable.  He said that as long as you have a degree, employers don’t really care what it’s in. They just want to see that you are trainable and that you stuck out the college career to the end.

That advice could have fertilized a sizeable garden.

If your advisor unloads that crap on you, change advisors, then take a look at the want ads. Look for what employers are advertising for. Right now, they’re looking for accountants, human resource people, and computer programmers, among others. Find something that appeals to you and get a degree in an actual discipline. My degree with its emphases in history, English and philosophy make me an absolute terror in a trivia game; but, that’s about it. A business degree would have been much more useful. Even an English degree would have been better, at least I could have taught with that. Meanwhile, I’m your broke, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire Phone-A-Friend….

…your broke, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire Phone-A-Friend who is trying to reinvent herself yet again.