The Valedictorian of Being Dead by Heather B. Armstrong

22-07-1922-07-19 / Lisa Guidarini / Leave a comment

From dooce.com

Gallery Books (April 23, 2019)

That’s another thing that people don’t understand about depression: we don’t want to take a shower, we don’t know why we feel this way, and even if we did, it wouldn’t make us stop feeling this way. We have lost all interest in doing anyting, especially anything that once brought us joy – because that thing will bring us joy, and we can’t bear the meaning of that.

Valedictorian of Being Dead

If you’re thinking this kind of book isn’t my normal fare, you’d be mostly right.

I’ve been a fan of Heather’s hugely popular blog Dooce nearly a decade, give or take. Fired from her corporate job for taking hilarious – though unappreciated – jabs at co-workers, originally she was just a snarky, damn funny writer.

After marrying and having a baby, she graduated to “mommy blogger”, going stratospheric. With her uber-honest writing about everything from the ups and downs of pregnancy (including particularly memorable sharing about constipation) to stunning photography and monthly love letters to her child, Leta, she shot up the ranks becoming one of the top 25 most influential blogs on Time magazine’s list.

Years later, dooce is still going strong, a highly personal and often funny account of parenthood, pregnancy, struggles with depression and cancer, and life as a former Mormon living among Mormons. Dooce’s strength is its unflinching honesty.

Time, 2009

After the publication of her first book about crippling depression, a local Chicago paper found Bluestalking – which had garnered attention through mention in The New York Times, a book about literary blogs, and winning a couple lit blog awards – and wanted to interview me about the reasons I wrote, and how it related to mental health. So, when Heather announced she was in the process of writing a book about an experimental treatment aimed at drug-resistant depression, I made time for it.

The Valedictorian of Being Dead describes in depth how and why a team of medical professionals took her brain function to near zero, then essentially brought her back life, in an effort to reset her brain. Related to ECT, this new therapy is thought to have less side effects, though it’s so new long-term data isn’t yet available.

It has so far worked for Heather, which is encouraging. She no longer wishes she were dead. Sounds like a victory to me.

Characteristic of the honesty and thoroughness of her writing, it’s not a straight relation of medical facts. Heather talks about the history of her depression, its impact on her children and family, and the evolution of dooce.com. She also opens up about her marriage, and the reasons for its demise.

Not as well written as I’d hoped, it was worth reading both for its explanation of this fascinating new treatment and further honest revelations about her life. I overlooked how over-written it is, occasionally cringe-worthily so. Though we’ve met and interacted only briefly, like millions of other readers of her blog I’m fond of Heather, and identify with what she’s been through.

It won’t make the shelf of iconic memoirs relating battles with mental ilness. It’s no Darkness Visible or The Noonday Demon, but fans of dooce.com will appreciate hearing this part of her story. Likewise, those battling depression unresponsive to traditional treatments may find hope knowing doctors are pioneering new approaches.

February in Review: A whole lotta nothing going on.

28-02-1809-03-18 / Lisa Guidarini / 1 Comment

Month of Kahlua and cream

That deafening sound is the huge, sucking vortex that was my February. Where the ever-loving hell did it even go? It went to the Olympics and my new obsession with curling, I suppose. Figures, it’s a Scottish sport. I can’t get by a week without something Scottish grabbing my ankle, interrupting me, disrupting my attention.

I hate to say it, but mostly I frittered the month away. I didn’t finish one, single book this month. Not even The Ballad of Peckham Rye. I was, and am, at most 20 pages from the end, but have I turned that last page?

Why no. No, I haven’t.

I’ve re-engaged with it, though, started over and I’m enjoying it more – probably because I’m paying actual attention. It’s funny, quirky Muriel Spark, no trace of the nastiness of Memento Mori. Did I mention I didn’t like that book?

Because I really didn’t like that book.

Peckham Rye features a Scot who may or may not be the devil. On his head are the stumps of horns. He jokingly – or is it joking? – tells people he is the dark one. Is he? Give me 20 pages and I’ll tell you.

Oh, Jaysus. More Scots.

Books I Was Reading, but Did Not Finish, in February:

The Ballad of Peckham Rye by Muriel Spark

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

Ruby by Cynthia Bond

Other stuff I touched but didn’t get far enough to include in the count.

New Books

Here’s one!

Previously unpublished NF by Hurston

Barracoon is about one of the last surviving slaves to cross the Atlantic, written by one of the greatest southern writers of all time: Zora Neale Hurston. I’m full to bursting thinking about it.

There’s more, but pacing. Pacing, as in they’re all over the house, and I’m sitting comfortably. Or, not so much comfortably, but settled. I’m old; it takes effort getting off the floor. Do you mind if I tell you later?

Thanks! Appreciated.

February was pretty much the month of who cares. The black dog came sniffing at my door, bringing a thing that’s very much occupying my mind. A thing I cannot control, which is usually where depression gets you. If it were something I could control, I’d have done something about it. As it is, my hands are tied.

I know, I know. It’s not fair teasing. Uncharacteristically, I’m not forthcoming. That tells you it’s something that really matters, that’s precariously perched.

Something I hope will resolve in my favor – for the best, rather.

Whitby Abbey, England – July 2017

The reading thing, though. That really bothers me. Reading is my refuge, and when I can’t retreat to that I go a bit crazy. Instead, I filled my time with volunteering (a good thing), TV (not great, but forgivable for the Olympics) and hanging framed photo prints on my walls. The majority are from the UK, but a couple from Paris and Brussels, even Niagara Falls, made the cut. I culled my hard drive.

I really did diddly squat in February.

Edinburgh Castle: painting effect

How can I turn all this around in March? Well, the days are lengthening. That helps the mood. The fire is rekindling, that’s crucial. The Olympics are over… no more curling. And, I’m again losing myself in books, if only for short spaces.

March will be better. Not perfect, but better. Three steps forward, 2.5 steps back. That’s still progress.

For one thing, I have five days off at the end of March, my birthday through April Fool’s Day, and oh my god that just occurred to me HOW IRONIC. I’m going somewhere, I just don’t know where. When I go, you’ll know. I’ll photograph the living hell out of it.

I will finish some Muriel Spark, A Clockwork Orange, Ruby and Barracoon. I’ll read more about Muriel Spark in the bio by Stannard, and finish or make peace parting with the stragglers. I’ll start outlining an Ian Rankin novel, which I mentioned months ago, to study its innards. Then, I’ll start planning the next crop.

I’ll volunteer, I’ll write, I’ll engage in activities that don’t involve TV.

So long, February. I can’t say I’ll miss you.

Welcome, March. I have a feeling you’ll bring much better things.

Daily: Bits & Bob’s yer uncle

31-01-1801-02-18 / Lisa Guidarini / Leave a comment

After a long stretch of feeling pretty okay, insomnia and that black dog depression reared their ugly heads once again. The all too familiar slide began before Christmas. I thought once the holidays passed I’d bounce back; a couple weeks later, I realized that wasn’t going to happen without intervention.

You can’t be proud when it comes to your health. I talked with my doctor, he prescribed a “nudge” medication, and I’m back to sleeping like a baby.

I can feel the slightest deviation in mood. My brain’s like a Stradivarius, without the market value. There’s no need to suffer when you don’t have to, especially when it compromises something as important as sleep.

* * * * * * *

Reading-wise, I’m accumulating a lot more books than I’m reading.

I know: GASP.

Five or six books joined my vintage Penguin pile (I’ll tell you later), along with publisher freebies and the fruits of several ill-advised visits to bookstores. I say “ill-advised” only because I’m carrying a balance on my credit card I’d ~~theoretically~~ very much like to pay off.

Among other things, I found this gorgeous copy of Alice in Wonderland, illustrated by Andrea D’Aquino:

Mistress Alice

The White Rabbit

The caterpillar & his hookah

ABSOLUTELY STUNNING.

* * * * * * *

What to do with five days off…

Poor me, I requested my birthday (March 28) and the four days following off work. Now I have to choose a destination. Don’t you even say Scotland.

Just NO.

One thing I neglected to consider: late March is prime spring break season. Anyplace warm will be packed with thousands of college kids vomiting their brains out in the streets. Outstanding. There goes Nola, for sure. Right before Easter, at the height of party season? Nice planning, idiot.

I need to pick a place kids don’t care about, far from the madding crowd. Something tells me they won’t be hunting things literary like I will. I know, I’m probably giving them short shrift. Of course American kids are erudite.

Nope. Can’t manage a straight face.

Here are the options I’ve chosen:

Native of Asheville, NC

Option One: Asheville, NC.

Asheville is on my shortlist of possible places to move. It’s roughly a ten-hour drive, so close enough I can zip back to the Chicago area to visit the kids with relative ease. It’s kind of in the South, along the Atlantic seaboard, so it’s milder. It’s also damned beautiful.

A towering figure in American letters – Thomas Wolfe – hails from Asheville, plus it’s roughly two short hours to gorgeous Charleston, right on the Atlantic. The drive there would be beautiful, and there’s plenty to see and do.

Harper Lee and Truman Capote

Option Two: Alabama!

A literary loop in Alabama, now that’s not a bad idea.

Yes, I said Alabama.

Harper Lee was from Alabama. Truman Capote visited her in Monroeville every summer, as a child. Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald owned a home in Montgomery, where Zelda was born.

The state’s actually blessed with literary connections. And losing Republican senators.

Burlington, VT

Option Three: Swoon.

New England. Lovely, lovely New England. Choices here are limitless. So limitless I can’t choose. What an awful problem to have.

But… And this is a very big but… It’s six hours further than Asheville. Thirty-two hours driving in the space of five days? I love road trips, but holy mother of gawd.

Sweet home, Chicago

Option Four: Staycation in Lovely Chicago.

I don’t take enough advantage of living next to this beautiful city. All the architecture, the Newberry Library, the Art Institute… It’s true you neglect what’s right under your nose.

And I don’t mean your mouth.

Hotels are expensive in the city, sure. But no more than I’d be paying on long road trips, not to mention gas – and wear and tear on the car. Of course, it’s also minus Asheville and Alabama and New England.

Blimey.

If you were me, which would you pick?

Why can’t we leave writers alone?

15-06-1415-06-14 / Lisa Guidarini / 3 Comments

“Why does the writing make us chase the writer? Why can’t we leave well enough alone? Why aren’t the books enough?”

– Julian Barnes

Yesterday I worked selling books on behalf of the library where I work. Our tent was set up at a local festival featuring food, drink, art and handicrafts, that sort of thing, our purpose to remind the public we exist and sell a few books to help offset costs of library programming, etc. I sold 14 books in the hour I was there, only one to myself, which is sort of amazing. The book I bought:

A Writer’s Commonplace Book by Rosemary Friedman

A commonplace book, in case you’re unfamiliar, is a collection of quotes and thoughts about books a reader keeps. It’s a jotting down of memories or striking quotations, facts about authors, etc. I’ve always meant to keep a commonplace book; instead, my thoughts are spread out in at least a dozen journals, here on my blog and all over the web. Maybe when I’m old(er) I’ll compile them into one place.

Ha. Yeah.

The point is, I came across the above quotation by Julian Barnes in the book I purchased. Honestly, it felt a little hurtful. I’m not sure if he was speaking of himself – as in, leave me alone – or if it was more a general thought, but it stung because I would love to meet Julian Barnes, the man behind the words that have moved me. Depending on the circumstances, I now know he may find that intrusive. Should I have the honor of meeting him I’d feel discomfort not knowing his true meaning, though I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity. I’m not that big a fool, discomfort or not.

Translating this to my little world, I’ve received the occasional reader email thanking me for bringing up the topic of depression, bipolar II level depression, which includes suicide ideation. The admission I, too, suffer helps spread the understanding there is no shame, that it’s a chemical imbalance which can be brought about by horrific life events. It’s also genetic, coming down via my maternal family line. By mentioning it I’m aiming to both help others understand what bipolar depression is, how it differs from the up and down nature of bipolar I, and to help reassure my readers they’re by no means alone. I’m always flattered when someone reaches out, never annoyed.

Julian Barnes I am not but I have no trouble sharing with my audience that I hold the thought of suicide as an “out” (the ideation), should life become too much. A lot of creative people do. Is suicide an answer? No. My thinking is skewed and I understand that. It is treatable but the sword above my head will always be there. Not everyone knows this about me. Fact is, you never know what others are suffering, what chains they drag behind them, like Dickens’s Marley in the afterlife. I don’t think most people intentionally harm others but the marks left by unintentional hurt are just as dark.

I’ve learned the hard way authors can be abrupt, feeling devastation upon being rebuffed. When a writer is off-putting, or downright rude (I’ve had little personal experience of this), it colors the way you look at his or her work. The knife twists in your belly, the stark realization the connection the writer made with a very deep part of you now rings false. What a lot of writers do not understand is their audiences are, speaking on behalf of lovers of deeply literary writing, generally highly sensitive people. The same is so of many writers. The more deeply sensitive you are, the more attracted to literature that plumbs the depths of humanity. And when you come across someone who gets that, who moves you in a way so visceral, it’s difficult not equating the writer with what touched you.

Julian Barnes, no animosity intended, does this make a bit more sense? I hope so. It sounds trite saying “let’s be kind,” but you can’t know what another human being has suffered, nor how you helped lighten a load. You can never go wrong taking the route of graciousness but certainly can by turning away. It takes so little, a few minutes only. A few minutes to show humanity doesn’t ask much. And the difference it makes could be more profound than you could dream.

To answer your question, this is why.