"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am become sounding brass, or a clanging cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophecy, and know all mysteries and all knowledge; and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And if I bestow all my goods to feed the poor , and if I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profiteth me nothing.
Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not provoked, taketh not account of evil; rejoiceth not in unrighteousness, but rejoiceth with the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”
I Corinthians 13
I do not believe anyone who has ever felt depressed has not also felt the truth of these words, whatever their faith, even, and perhaps more, those who have no religion. But there is a recipe here for despair: "...but have not love, I am nothing". For at the heart of depression lies the certainty that I am not loved, nor lovable. I know that I have friends who care, but their love is not sufficient, and anyway if they truly knew me, they could not possibly love me, because I know that I do not deserve love. Someone may ask "How can you expect anyone to love you if you don't love yourself?" Well, yes, exactly. But that is the problem, I can not love myself... because nobody loves me. And hence "I am nothing". There is no escape. But a moment must come when the desperation becomes too much to bear and I have to break out of it. By any means necessary.
I am not a clinician, so what right do I have to make pronouncements like that? Quite simply, "been there, done that." I know at first hand how it feels when a stranger's greeting cuts like a knife, a small act of kindness overwhelms me with despair. But I also have, at least so far, always had the means to escape. There seems no way to avoid the vortex. This elevator does not stop between floors. My only available modes of confronting the world are sadness or anger. As depression drags on it becomes almost impossible to function in sadness, anger becomes more and more the rule, as anger offers some illusion of autonomy and strength, but only illusion. This is enough to allow me to take care of the necessary activities required for day to day survival. But there does come a final point where it is intolerable to go on like this. My own emergency exit is creativity. Propelled by anger I am able to embark on some creative activity. The creativity becomes an end in itself, the anger dissipates, to a degree at least, and I begin to function more or less "normally" again.
Creativity is most emphatically not a product of depression, which results in an almost total collapse of the will, and intellectual and emotional paralysis. Creating can provide an escape hatch, but it takes strength. Pain can be a rich source of inspiration, but is never expressed as art while in the grip of depression. When depressed there is no creativity. The act of will by which one begins to create in spite of depression is the first step out. But creativity itself is an expression of joy and an affirmation of life. Periods of depression have contributed nothing to my creativity, but I thank life that creativity has been my lifeline.
Creativity is not the same as making art, which is not to say that making art is not creative. I would claim that creativity is simply engaging in any activity that occupies my full attention. I might also suggest that love is simply engaging with another being with one's full attention. Love is the ultimate act of creativity, and every creative act is an act of love.
In a culture with an obsessive concern for masculinity, where creativity is equated with effeminacy, where depression is a mark of weakness, and where guns are presented as a universal solution to problems, tragedy is the inevitable outcome.
Sadly there is a prevailing view in American culture that somehow depression is a luxury. It is not bad enough that it is a sign of weakness, of shame. The contempt of the world simply provides confirmation. But a luxury? No. I have never been depressed unless faced with some daunting circumstance, or more often set of circumstances. Then there is the often expressed opinion that "Depressed men/women have produced some of our most brilliant art”. While this is undeniably true in itself, it advances the notion that therefore depression is the source of great art and so we have no business interfering. Van Gogh is often held up as the exemplar. Poor Vincent, finally despairing, ends his life with a shotgun blast. But look at his art, they say. Well, I look at his art and all I can think is what might he have achieved had he been given a little recognition, or if he possessed a tenth part of Picasso’s vitality? I am not going to suggest that any of my own creative endeavors might represent "some of our most brilliant art", but I have certainly never been creative because of depression, rather in spite of it.
I am lucky. I know many people who do not subscribe to the "God, Guns and Guts" view that is so prevalent in this culture. I am articulate. I am educated. I have skills. Perhaps I have talent. I do have access to my creative side. But not one of these things is valued in the prevailing culture. On the contrary they are denigrated as weak, effeminate, or elitist.
Most of the time, for most people afflicted with depression, the means exist to break out of the vicious cycle of despair. But for any of us it is always possible to pass beyond that point. Depression is not an attitude or a pose, it is a response to circumstances. And what if those circumstances become so straitened that there is no way out? What is a person to do who has no readily available relief, whose work provides no opportunity for creativity, or worse is unemployed? Tragically, for too many, it seems the only escape is death.
Consider the present moment in American history: there is uncertainty about the future, no one can feel completely secure in his job. Consider the state of our culture: holding a job is the cornerstone of society’s validation of its members; creativity is equated with artsiness, in other words homosexuality; for a man to express emotions of any kind is weak; and then the ideal of masculinity is presented as the big man, stoic in the face of adversity, in possession of an unshakeable moral certitude, and armed to the teeth.
I cannot pretend to have any special insight into the mind of the shooter at Binghampton. But I believe it is possible to make some reasonable conjectures. He was unemployed, struggling to get by on $200 a week. This must surely have been his central reality. And of course it is impossible to get by on so little. Facing an impossible situation, alone, isolated, he then had to contend with knowing that the mere fact of being in that impossible situation was clear proof that he was despicable, useless to society, his family, himself.
After the shootings the Binghampton Police Chief voiced this contempt: “He was a coward.” An opinion that I am quite certain that Wong also held of himself. And that is where the story ends, until the next massacre.
I am neither an apologist or sympathizer of those who choose this spectacularly inappropriate way to put an end to their sufferings. But I am quite frankly amazed that it has not happened more often in the past, and certain that it will happen with increasing frequency.
For years children have not been educated in school, simply taught to answer multiple-choice tests. This does not foster problem solving skills, the ability to bring both imagination and intellect to bear, but encourages the idea that there is some stock response that is the sole right answer to any given situation. This of course is quite simply not the case, but the inability to find the (non-existent) correct solution to a difficult situation imbues feelings of inadequacy and insecurity.
Education in the arts is fast disappearing from our schools and legions of children are thrown into the adult world having no familiarity with the curative powers of individual creative efforts. Sports meanwhile have become an obsession, winning the only measure of success. Of course not everyone can win, so further legions of young adults begin their lives knowing they are losers. Utterly unequipped to deal with downturns in their lives, equating lack of material “success” with total spiritual failure, denigrated as weak, surrounded by glorification of gun violence…
Unless some profound societal changes happen soon, it seems inevitable that growing numbers of the defeated will choose to go out in “a blaze of glory”.
Do you really expect to see any change, any time soon? No? Then perhaps you should invest in a family pack of bullet-proof vests. Or emigrate to Canada.
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