A song

The group Basement Band has a song "Charleston", which to me has some great opening lines.

I am old.
I am weary.
And I'm coming home to die.
Would you bury me me by the old Oak tree
'tween the river and the ashweed?
Charleston won't you bury me.

That song and Dave Matthew's song Gravedigger, with the lines

Gravedigger
When you dig my grave
Could you make it shallow
So that I can feel the rain
Gravedigger

always hits a chord with me. It's not a fascination with death, but a feeling when we die, we want to be buried where we want to feel home. It's why most people commiting suicide pick the time and place carefully. It's important to them to be and feel safe when they die. Somewhere they're at and going home.

Home to be there and home to die.

It's why I know the next time I think about it enough to follow through, I know where I'll go. It's my favorite spot in Mt. Rainier NP, a remote, little-used trail where you can fit a place off the trail away from everyone and watch Mt. Rainier and see the glaciers in the endless dynamics of nature's forces, a volcano, constantly building, destroying and rebuilding a mountain and glaciers, the product of the volcano's location constantly craving their space and place against the mountain and weather.

Not a hard choice to make, the location that is. Dying is the harder part for me and why a third time won't be a success unless the forces are so overwhelming to lose all feeling and connection with life. It's either go there to die or someone share my ashes there.

Either way I'll be there. Leaving this world behind me.

No, I don't believe there is a heaven or some after-death place we go. We just die and our ashes returns to what it was before to start anew. Remember we're all stardust and we should all go back to being stardust. Anything else is cheating the universe of ourselves. Our efforts will carry on in the hearts of those who loved us and those we helped in our life. Let's not be stingy with our ashes and not share them with the future.

Or so that's my story, and until something better comes along, as Jimmy Buffett sang, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Solutions and answers

I was reading about the recent death of model and actress Lucy Gordon in Paris. She was twenty-eight years old with, as everyone likes to say, "a promising future." Well, we all do and it's just the normal perspective people take in these circumstances. People forget with depression, death is never the solution, but it's sometimes the answer.

It's hard to realize let alone really understand the smallness of someone's world when they're depressed to the point of suicide. And unless you've been there, you don't have a clue. It's one of the few experiences in life, you really have to have been there to understand. Empathy and sympathy are ok, but they're not understanding. And that's what's always missing in the discussion after their death.

People forget in depression, the person has already been through the litany of alternatives people expect us to consider and even choose. We've long left those along the road. They've been long exploded out of our thinking when we imploded into ourselves. We're down to the choice of life or death. And neither don't seem to solve the problems weighing on us, but death seems the better answer.

It's where everything disappears and we can find peace with the world and ourselves. And as much as we want to be with them and explain life is both the solution and the answer, we can't. It's not that they don't see us, or hear us. It's not about us, and not even about them, but simply our own individual existence. We've striped away all the facades and layers of feelings. We down to the basic choice we all face, death.

And the survivors are always suprised. "We didn't know.", is the common answers. Like all the clues weren't there? Or just that you were blind? And you didn't care enough about what they really felt and thought? Cruel? Yes, but truthful. I get tired of the, "We tried to help them.", response. It's bullshit. They didn't say because they saw you didn't really care about what really bothered them.

Both sides are blind. The person sitting in their own darkness wondering and wanting. And us, afraid to open the door with a candle. That's all you need to do, drop all the pretense and preaching. All they want is someone to sit with them and understand. They'll find their way out if they can, but they don't needs directions, just a companion.

A little light and one hand is everything, always there and always present in their mind.

No drugs

I haven't taken, currently take or intend to take anti-depressants for my Dysthymia. I was diagnosed in 1991 with, using the psychiatrist's term probably, genetic, lifelong Dysthymia. It runs in our family through my father and passed to his children and grandchildren. Or I suspect because no one wants admit it let alone say it. The fortunate side is that it while it's persistent and almost always prevalent, it's not severe, only mild to moderate.

When I was diagnosed the psychiatrist admited there weren't any anti-depressants on the market specificially for Dysthymia and it had only been recognized within the previous decade as a form of depression separate from depressive personality and milder expressions of depression. It was often called chronic mild depression, but has been given its own name for the factors surrounding its presence in people, meaning, either genetic, lifelong or later onset.

Since then a number of drugs have become available for Dysthymia, some unique to it but most milder dosages of stronger anti-depression drugs. And like those, it has the same efficacy, about 50% of patients do well, the other half get nothing. And like those too, it's has a break-in period of weeks to months and a lifespan of months to a few years at most before your mind and body begins the decreasing its response.

And so you spend a lifetime chasing drugs, waiting for the start, wondering if it's working, and then hoping it lasts, knowing it doesn't and you're back to the doctor for more or something new. The consistent two to three year cycle, knowing you're dependent and hoping you don't crash. And living with the side effects which may exacerbate the some of the bad or worse feelings you're depressed about.

And so I use signs and other ways to live.

In the conversations with the psychiatrist she taught me to recognize the signs. The signs I'm normal, when I'm feeling my depression getting worse, and when I'm feeling better from a depressive period. She taught me to recognize the things I do when I'm feeling normal and to work on them to sustain being normal. She taught me to follow in instincts and intuition about when the feelings change.

But most of all I learned to find ways to "tread water" through the worse periods and to use my mind and explore the feelings during the worse times, to both see what and how I feel and how to find answers if something triggered or is perpetuating the depression. And then to find ways out of the worse periods, if only to exist in life while I wait to get better.

All without drugs. It's harder and often worse, but I know I am and I know how creative I can be when I'm depressed, which is something often lost in the effort to find or be "happy." You miss the freedom your mind has by itself to explore the breadth and depth of your depression and to see the world as it is when you're there. It's its own freedom.

And I've learned how to see the signs and avoid the implosion of the mind and spirit that leads to thoughts of suicide. You know it's a room you have to fall or enter, all too often forgetting we passed the threshold without realizing we're already there. We've imploded into darkness and we didn't know, but only the darkness we're in.

I've learned to know those moments and feelings on my own and to stand at the edge of it's darkness to see and make choices in and about my life. Without the aid of drugs, just life itself. And me. Nothing more and nothing less. About as real as it gets. I've learned to appreciate being and feeling alive. Not much more than I could expect some days and work on doing better.

And the only drugs are myself and life.

Time disappears

When you're in a depression, time just disappears. Literally. While time seems to go slow when you're depressed, it's quick and gone when you look back. You just sit there wondering where it went, all the ideas of things to do, promises to fulfill, places to go, all just gone like the wind. Time just disappeared.

That's what's happened most of this year. Back in January I was working on making prints and photo cards. By February I had all the print done, about a half dozen stacks of 6 prints for each of 10 print in a card set. I made it through one pile of prints. Then I had a root canal and recovered from a bone infection with the root canal. Then I just felt like crap and never recovered.

And now it's mid-May, two-plus months gone. I have some things to show for it, but no new cards made, no photo trips beyond the occasional walk around, and only a handful of Web pages done for the photo guide and early history projects. My body got through the problems, but only to realize I still haven't done much on my running program.

It simply disappeared. Time. Not because being older the perception of time changes, which it does, but that it did go by without much to show. And add the promises I made but didn't do and the card sets I was supposed to send (which were really supposed to be Christmas gifts but I was sick Thanksgiving to past New Years). And the to do list still with little marked off as done.

Time is like that in a depression, simultaneously quick and forever. The hours seem to drag and the days seem to disappear behind you, and you wake up months later wondering what happened and where were you all that time. You disappeared too, into the darkness, lost in a endless tunnel complex with only the occasional glimpse of light. You lost yourself too.

It's like the misty rain in a spring storm, gently falling, relentlessly and seemingly forever. You can't hide from it and you can't get dry. Everything just weighs, feels heavy and your body tired and sleepy. You want to sleep but you hate sleep because you can't sleep and will have to wake up tomorrow. And go through this again, the fog and mist invading your world and your being.

Time and you just go by and just went. Both gone. Just existing. And then just history. And you wait for the storm to pass, the rain to quit, the sun to appear. And you wait. And wait some more, never realizing the wait disppears too, as time and you disappear. Sometimes you give up and go out into the rain, to know you're still alive.

And there you find nothing changed, you're only standing there alone, surrounding by the fog and rain where you can't tell where and when anything is anymore, only you standing there for a moment, and another. Before you go back inside to realize there nothing changed, everything is still waiting for you, to remind you what hasn't been done.

And the choices ahead all seem like work, too much work, even if you know you should do something. Sweep the floor. Anything, but waiting. Except waiting seems to always feel the best answer, even though you know it's the worst answer. Energy has disappeared too. And you wait for that, but it won't come without work, which you don't want to do.

And so you sit. Waiting for something you know not when or what. Waiting. And hoping it's soon. Really soon. But you don't know if that's true or real, or just a wish or a hope. You can't decide because that's work. You just want it to happen, and begin to feel better, if only for a moment. And maybe another moment. Hope the moments last. Last longer than the wait.

When the moments happen, you pray they don't disappear too. Like everything else, except everything you haven't done is there around you like clutter, there and in your mind. The clutter you can't see through or around to see your way through. You have to just go. Forward. And hope. And wait. If only for a moment. And then another moment.

Rainy days

Here in the Pacific Northwest, rainy days are usual, sometimes the norm, and never more than just over the western horizon for storms to fly through on the jet stream. And some years, rainy days more common than sunny ones. It's the nature of the cyclical annual and seasonal weather patterns. And this years seems they're the norm. So far anyway.

And that's what's happening today. The clouds came overnight into the morning and by late morning the rain started and hasn't stopped, often intensifying into a downpour before lightening up to a gentle shower. It's the nature of spring storms and more so the major storm fronts travelling through.

Since I retired I tend to stay indoors and watch the rain from the deck. I still go out now and then, sometimes to wear the expedition rain suit I used for years doing field work and hiking, but mostly now I just hibernate and watch. I can wait it out now, at least spring storms. The winter ones, you can't, you just bundle up and go.

I remember in Oregon and here in Washington I used to do a week or more field trip into Cascade and Coast Ranger mountains in the rain. From the time I got in my truck to the time I got back to the warerhouse and go home. The only time I wasn't in the rain was in the gage house and in the truck. But my trusty rainsuit kept me warm and dry and only my hands got wet from writing in the field books.

And I've gone hiking and done photo trips in the rain. Hiking in the rain is interesting. It promotes hiking. All you want is to get somewhere under a shelter. I hate tents so I tried for shelters. But even then, your backpack is all wet. and everything is wet so sitting and eating is still being in the rain. Soggy sandwiches and chips and all. It's gets tiring after some years and I quit hiking in the rain but I still shoot photo events in the rain.

And I love the sound of the rain on against the roof, the harder the rain, the louder the sound, and the more I like it. It's why I liked hiking in the rain, the sound against the top of your head, or the roof in my place. Like in the song by Dave Matthews, "Grave Digger", about asking to dig a shallow grave to feel the rain.

But this essay isn't about the rain really, but the mind and the rain. Sometimes we're inexplicably drawn to something, as innate and intuitive as just being. For me, it's rain. I like standing watching, sensing, feeling, hearing, smelling, and everything else the rain is. Rain is indifferent. It just rains on everything. It's the lifecycle of the earth, out planet. Without it we wouldn't be here.

Besides being indifferent, rain is relentless. It just doesn't stop. It's always there, just waiting outside. Just waiting and raining. You can dress to stay dry, but that doesn't change the rain. It won't go away until the storm travels through to somewhere else. And then you get the smell of the rain, it leaves that smell that we always know it rained.

And surprisingly no matter how soon the rain was or how long ago it last rained, you like that smell. It only lingers awhile, like the steam from puddles evaporating in the sun. Here for awhile and gone, but leaving its mark in your memory. You always knows the smell and remember the steam. The rain is gone but it never leaves.

Kinda' like my Dysthymia and living with it.

Some days

Some days just are, some need help to be, and some days, well, aren't much beyond being forgotten. Yeah, not original, but there are days I get to the end and wonder what the hell happened and what I did. My Dad used to call them puttering days where you seem waste the time on one small thing after another, and soon forget what all you did that day.

I was reading that you perceive time differently as you age. While time doesn't change, it's always the hope there's always tomorrow that extend and expands your perception of time, but as you get old(er) that perception changes to know there are fewer tomorrows left in your life. When you're young, time is irrelevant. When you're old, it's everything.

It's why I retired to pursue personal projects. While I still have some health and fitness left to get over, I retired to pursue nature and landscape photography and continue hiking in Mt. Rainier NP, or so I thought and keep thinking. And to work on a photography guide for Mt. Rainier NP and some projects with the early history of the NP before and after its designation.

So days that just exist beyond getting through them become more significant. You know it's just another day, and sure tomorrow is still tomorrow, but you wonder how many more are there when the past is that and the future is shorter. It's harder as you age to realize some days are the same as then because you wonder when you go, you'll be judged by the number of them you choose to get through.

Not really. God has more important issues than people goofing off, but sometimes it feels like it, like someone in God's shop is tracking us and counting. It's really all self-imposed, internal guilt for the days we just don't feel like engaging the world outside of our own.

I call them lounge days. Since my home also has my office now, working it just what I do around everything else at home. I can take breaks, do housework, take naps, read books, watch TV or whatever else I want around doing or working on my photography or working on the Mt. Rainier photography guide and history projects.

I can also just wander into the world through my computer. I read 3-5 newspapers daily, some days I go and get the print version along with on-line ones not available in print locally, and the rest of the days I read the free on-line ones. Sorry, I refuse to pay for the on-line WSJ. Rupert Murdoch already gets my money elsewhere.

And I can wander through the various forums, ready blogs, view other photographers' Website, or just work on my own blogs, which are probably too much verbage anyway, but it's the freedom we have these days. One thing I don't do is live on facebook or twitter. While I'm on those Websites, I'm not an overtly social person to live there.

I have two types of lounge days. Sunny ones and rainy ones. And yes, it's weather related. While being mildly-to-moderately Dysthymic I'm also have mild-to-moderate Seasonal Affective Condition. I refuse to call it a "disorder" because it's not a mental health problem, it's just who I am, like many others. I do react to the weather and living in the Puget Sound area sometimes doesn't help.

But I know having lived in Arizona, extended sunny and warm, and especially hot, days are overwhelming. I need seasons and I need weather, real Pacific Northwest weather, and as bad as it gets, it's the best overall for me. And it creates the sunny and rainy lounge days. Each with their own facets and attributes. Each admired and hated for the same. For what they are and what they aren't.

And that's where both are necessary, in my life, and for lounging around and puttering the day away. Each time the days are different, so really they are significant and not wasted. We do that other places, driving in traffic, standing in lines, waiting for appointments. So lounging at home? Just maybe it's not as bad as people describe or judge.

Because you're not waiting on or for someone else, only yourself. You're in your own world, on your own time, at your own speed. That's hard to beat anymore. And I don't see God minding that, being yourself.

Two years on

It's been two years since the first Living with Dysthymia post. While everything has changed, nothing has changed in that it's still there, as always, and like me, a little worse for wear from time and experience. That's the nature of life, as each of us lives and experiences it.

The posts during this period, which can be found here, are more momentary ramblings. A thought like eating cereal where you eat a bite which triggers a thought which melds into an idea and grows into a essay written as thought. I'm a stream of consciousness writer, I write what I think at the moment, and just let the images of words pour out from the picture in my mind.

You see I don't write as writers write. I'm a visual person. I see writing. And idea grows into a full thought with paragraphs containing sentences. I see the paragraphs and I write. And if the thought comes from the sadness in my mind, then it's seen and expressed as such. Sometimes the picture, like this essay and the photo above, is foggy at best, and shades of gray everywhere.

This is where my Dysthymia is for the most part, as it has been most of my life. From the time I was a child and hated being around other people to today where I like living and working alone interacting with people when and where I want or have to as life dictates.

And retirement has actually helped because I can spend days thinking and writing about my Dysthymia and not pretending to be happy at work. I can be myself in the privacy of my life, free to explore the breadth and depth of my Dysthymia when it worsens. I don't take drugs for my Dysthymia.

I've only slightly followed the research into anti-depressants over the years, I've tried to use Taoism, running, and photography to search and express my Dysthymia as I think and feel. They're not anti-depressants, but expressions of it. I don't try to dampen or change it, but explore and examine it.

I've found when I do that, I find my mind expanding into new areas of thought and feelings and find creativity I would have under drug therapy. In the twilight and sometimes darkness of Dysthymia, the light becomes more visible and intense, and often into the shadows of my mind where the light doesn't penetrate unless you go there. Somewhere drugs won't take you.

And so two years on, and my life now nearly 60 years on, the road is still there, wandering wherever it goes with whatever light I carry, and the hope the end isn't obvious or slow, but there a moment before I didn't know it existed. It's about just living and knowing death will happen whenever it does.