Saturday, October 21, 2006

Man's Search for Meaning

I've just read a book that I'd often heard about but had never actually read, Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. Frankl was a concentration camp survivor and psychiatrist. I read most of the book yesterday which happened to be a VERY bad day for me. Deep depression. Overwhelming stomach sickness. Headache from hell. Feelings of severe desperation.

In a nutshell, the two main points that helped me in this book are: 1) Unlike Freud, who said we live by the pleasure principle and, unlike Adler, who advocated that man's desire is for power, I agree with Frankl who said what we truly desire (and need, is probably more to the point) is meaning in our lives. 2) There is meaning in suffering. Indeed, there is always the potential for meaning.

This is a man who came out of the camps not just alive but with compassion and humanity. I have deep respect for him and found the book inspiring as well as an interesting starting point for thinking about my own situation. One place where I couldn't get with Frankl is his contention that having something bigger than ourselves helps us to find meaning in suffering. I.e. let's use my case: I am growing a baby, I have a beloved daughter. These two facts defiinitely give me reason to live. I am not suicidal. These two facts, however, don't prevent me from feelings of desperation and depression.

I would call what he calls self-transcendence, lightening up. And, though, I feel a deep sense of meaning from being my daughter's mother and from having the privilege to be creating another beautiful being, that meaningful feeling is not lightening my load of suffering (or gunk).

I fully understand that hormones play havoc with my emotions. My current state of emotional pain is much exacerbated by the strange hormonal doings of my body, not to mention the physical illness.

And yesterday, I was really really losing it. Not, again, in the sense of being suicidal but by feeling completely desperate. But I also believe (without certainty) that those emotions don't just come from nowhere, they're part of my packet of gunk.

In my terrible state yesterday, I was arguing with myself about going on antidepressants. I can't judge people who take them. I took Paxil during a very bad depression 7 or 8 years ago. It helped me start functioning when I couldn't function. But I also felt very weird while I was on the drug and weaned myself off. I am in no way certain about my belief about anti-depressants, which is that the argument the doctors give you is too simplistic. They always say if you were diabetic you would take insulin; if you're low on name-the-brain-chemical you need your name-the-depression-drug. I am also in no way certain that another of my beliefs about depression is true, namely that depression is a real state of emotion meant to be felt, respected and moved through, not dulled. My other not so certain belief is that anti-depressants are just a less destructive form of pain-duller/-avoider like alcohol or pot or stronger drugs. Part of my uncertain belief is that anti-depressants just slow down the whole growing up, waking up process.

I'm much more certain that taking them while pregnant would be difficult for the baby. At the same time, I understand why so many people do take them. They feel better. And I may yet decide I need to go on them because I understand that continuing to lose it won't help me, my daughter or my baby (not to mention my long-suffering husband). My naturopath wants me to take St. John's Wort (an herbal anti-depressant) but I'm even resisting that. What I read indicates there is little information about its effects on babies. I can't decide if I'm just idiotically stubborn or on the right path and I realize I need to dig up some books about sitting in depression because, at present, I feel pretty alone on this road.

So back to Viktor Frankl. His contention that meaning may be found in and through suffering has helped me. As did this passage when he quotes a fellow psychiatrist: " 'In the present-day culture of the United States, ... the incurable sufferer is given very little opportunity to be proud of his suffering and to consider it ennobling rather than degrading' so that 'he is not only unhappy, but also ashamed of being unhappy.' " I realize that shame describes me.

Frankl wrote before the onset of near-universal anti-depressant use. I wonder what he would have made of the trend. Again, I question myself, am I being a stubborn masochist or am I being sensible?
And how am I finding meaning in my suffering beyond Claire and my growing baby? I realize I am actually a decent person. I know I am a good mother. I'm honest. Though I have feelings of anger and irritability towards people in my life, I don't act on them. (Or mostly, you'd probably better ask Dave). I'm a good teacher. I care about my students. And I'm a champion of sitting in gunk (again, whether this is doing me or anyone else any good is an open question). Still, it's a form of bravery, nothing to be ashamed of.

Viktor Frankl and I diverge on the idea of self-transcendence. I will not be able to find true meaning until I am able to live for myself. Just having the questions and enduring the struggles is the best I can do in that direction right now.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Self-loathing, stuck, no pregnant HBP events

Some good news. It's started to sink in that I'm getting a beautiful baby at the end of this ordeal. (A girl according to the ultrasound). I'm also sort of better at being sick. A little tiny bit more accepting that this is simply how it is. If I want to read frickin mystery books to cope, well then I'll read frickin mystery books (I recommend Ian Rankin, Dan Fesperman and Peter Robinson... any other suggestions are welcome.)

I have been a cow to my husband, though. This is what has also sunk in: I have deep unresolved feelings of self-loathing. They don't come from a rational place but from a deep, unreachable place that seems to reemerge as I go along; sort of a two steps forward, one step back kind of thing (or God, I hope the resulting movement is forward. I do look back on my life and see some sort of progress but where I am today looks distressingly stuck and fucked up). I have been working on peeling this onion for years. And, I suppose, to extend the metaphor, as you get closer to the centre the layers get more crowded and more difficult to peel away.

Anyway, my current bout of self-loathing spills over into my relationship with Dave. Anything I see in him that reminds me of my shit irritates the hell out of me, I guess because he's handy. This is the poor shmuck who is compassionately looking after his sick, pregnant wife. I am not proud of myself; in fact I know I'm a big asshole. The guy definitely deserves better and I did mention he could take his love to town, though decent fellow that he is, he still comes home at night.

Self-loathing, where does it come from? I saw another energy-worker/healer lady last week (Who knew there were so many in this backward, conservative little city? I have continued to consult with many practitioners of different healing modalities including the more mainstream ones; to what avail I am uncertain). She felt that I had a past life that was interfering with this one and worked on clearing that energy.

I am not overly invested in past life theories but I have often thought that the pain I've suffered in this life seems out of proportion to what I have lived. I do believe in the idea of karma, not just what goes around comes around, but that you are born into this world with what I call gunk (or old energies).

Oh my God, the gunk that is still attached to me! The self-loathing is just there. I can intellectualize all I want about how unworthy I am for such harsh treatment but it's just there like grotesque goop attached to my skin. Like I said, you can peel that onion but there are so many layers. It does feel like I must be closer to the centre, though, because there are just so few breaks lately.
I used to deal with my gunk by drinking, binging, antidepressants, etc., now I use mystery books. This is part of the excellent progress to which I refer. I'm still stubborn enough to think that those old ways hindered more than helped my progress (and, more to the point, they all stopped working) but I wish I had something stronger than mystery books to put me out of my misery for a while. Anyone know an exorcist?

(I also believe that while we allow other people to be less than and while so many people in the world are so lost, none of us can really be completely okay. And maybe that's the human condition, but what a stupid fucking condition, if I may just opine about it briefly.)

Another thing: I'm 45, as of a couple of weeks ago. I want to believe that getting older does not have to mean getting weaker but it seems that in my continuing gunkiness, I am just not as resilient to life on earth as I was when I was younger. If I am lucky enough to shed some of this deep karmic goop, I think I might be able to achieve health, old or not. Since I have been consciously working on this since the early 90s, the jury's way out on that ever happening.

I also know that every pregnancy differs. I was old for a pregnant lady (39 and 40) during my last one too but I felt better during that pregnancy than I had in years--it really was a miraculous break from the gunk. I so looked forward to that experience again. Disappointment.

I am stuck, stuck, stuck. Needless to say, doing a pregnant Human Body Project event is the last thing on my mind. The Human Body Project right now is me growing a baby and occasionally writing about what I'm going through. I can't work myself up to care about doing another event even though I know using my pregnant body would be powerful. I just can't do it (unless some huge shift occurs soon... unlikely). It's been very difficult, however, to say I'm not going to do it. I'm really having a hard time letting myself off the hook.

So I'll say it: Barring some huge shift in my health situation, there will be no pregnant Human Body Project event. Also, whatever the Human Body Project is or will become, besides this blog, is unknown. Same goes for me, I suppose.