Seventeenth date 3, Depression, dignity, arrogance

D and I talked about my depression. I hit a really bad spell Thursday night, and Friday morning we stayed in the hotel talking instead of my going into the office. D repeated what she has said before (here and here) – that my depressive spells leave her feeling totally helpless, and therefore both frightened and angry. She repeated that I look different when I sink into them – that I hold myself differently, that I smell different, that my eyes change color. Honestly for a minute I thought she was going to compare me to Bruce Banner. (Turns out she didn’t know who Bruce Banner is.) And she asked why I don’t take more aggressive steps to manage my depression. Ummm, … I dunno, maybe because this looks normal to me? Maybe because honestly it used to be so much worse, back before I went on antidepressant medication, so it never really occurred to me that it could be still better? D had very stern words for the idea that this is “normal”, and she insisted that my depressive spells will affect any intimate relationship I ever try to have, be it with her or anyone. She also suggested that there was something wrong with the fact that I have never ever – not once – mentioned my depression to my family. What’s that about?

I couldn’t answer, but I thought about another connection. D and I have disagreed before about the concept of human dignity. As a committed Catholic, she feels that individual dignity and worth are non-negotiable facts about everyone alive. For myself (as I mention here), I tend to think of dignity more as a false front, a pompous face that we put on artificially to look impressive to others. I certainly don’t think that I have any kind of innate worth that entitles me to anything special in this world. I figure that everything good in my life is a gift, probably an unearned gift. What is more, it is hard for me to think there is anything wrong or pathological with seeing the world this way. Isn’t this attitude the surest protection against my becoming an arrogant prick? Arrogance would be such an easy trap to fall into, because all my life I have been on the receiving end of praise: from my teachers in school, for being bright and getting good grades; from my classmates, for being a nice guy; from my employers, for being diligent and serious and a team-player … whatever that is. Wouldn’t it be the most natural thing in the world for me to be insufferably egotistical about all this? But I try to avoid that – really, I do – and I think a key part of what allows me to be decent (when I can) is that I really don’t think any of this matters. Sure, it’s nice; it can even be convenient. But it doesn’t make me one whit a better person, it doesn’t entitle me to anything, and honestly the praise becomes so monotonous that I can’t hear it any more. It is far, far easier for me to see my faults than my virtues.

Over lunch, D suddenly turned to me and asked, “When you write about me on your blog, do you describe me as harshly as you describe yourself?” Of course, for the most part I assume that she has no idea what I say about myself here, but that she makes plausible guesses based on how I talk about myself when I am with her. And I had to assure her that no, I would never do such a thing. You, my readers, know it is true that I have some reservations about D that would give me pause at the idea (for example) of marrying her. But overall? Overall I think she is pretty wonderful. I hope that comes through in everything I write. I certainly hope I don’t describe her the same way I describe myself. Heavens, when I am writing here I figure that there will always be an unconscious pressure to flatter myself, to describe things from a partial point of view, to make myself look better than I really am. In an effort to achieve balance, to come closer to the truth, I compensate by trying consciously to paint myself in the least flattering way that is consistent with whatever story I am telling. I doubt I have much luck in doing this, and I think (or at any rate I tell myself) that at best I am balancing out subconscious self-flattery. But the short answer is No, I don’t write about her as harshly as I do myself. I hope.

And I wonder something else. I’ve explained that I don’t believe I have any innate dignity, any innate claim on the good things in life … that I don’t really deserve anything. Is that part of why I was willing to marry Wife? Of course it wasn’t the whole story … I know there was a lot more to it than that. But could that have been part of it? Could that have been part of the reason, over all these long years, that I have never left her? Because I honestly didn’t think I deserved any better? Maybe so. It is a sobering idea.