A couple of nights ago I had dinner with Debbie. I was feeling slightly feverish (from an unknown bug) so we agreed we wouldn’t kiss. Still, it had been two whole days since we had seen each other (aren’t the first stages of love grand?) and so we both wanted to get together again.
She started out by telling me something she had been reading about how illness is perceived in different cultures: specifically, in this case, about a concrete case where mental illness (epilepsy) was understood as a special spiritual gift. We both agreed that there really does seem to be an aura of specialness, a light in the eyes, emanating from those with mental disorders. I talked about how magical Wife had seemed when I first met her; Debbie talked about her favorite aunt as she grew up, who was also crazy. We agreed, too, that there is an intensity about these people that makes them exciting to be around, even while it completely destabilizes the lives of everyone within splashing distance.
I asked her if she had ever been diagnosed with depression, because I wanted to test a hypothesis that I formulated a few years ago. Over the years I have noticed that with most people, my conversation is very superficial and unsatisfying, as if we somehow spoke different languages or came from different worlds. This is frustrating because it means that I go through life seeing many good and admirable people with whom I would like to be friends … only I can find absolutely no basis for a friendship with them. Maybe we can be colleagues who respect each other’s work, but no more. And then on the other hand there are a few people with whom I understand instantly that I can talk deeply and at length. All too often these are people who are somehow on the margins of whatever enterprise we are engaged in: people who don’t fit terribly well into the company or school where we both find ourselves. Or they are people who have something far from admirable about them. And often I have found later that they are depressed. Since I suffer from depression too, I had hit on the idea that maybe somehow the depression is what I see in someone when I meet him or her, that tells me right away, “This person is like you and you can talk to each other.” Maybe this is what I first saw in Wife, that attracted me even though she later proved so unsuitable in so many ways. Maybe.
Only it turns out Debbie isn’t a chronic depressive. She was afflicted with it twice: once was clearly situational, and the other time was a side-effect of another illness. I explained my hypothesis and she suggested that maybe the real key is that the people I can talk to – the people I understand – are people like me who have a very extensive inner life. (I figure this is a nice way to say, “People who wander around talking to themselves a lot.”) This will include a lot of depressed people, because depression draws one inward; but it’s not exactly the same.
And then she said something about her own experience and used the phrase, “that was back when I still confused intensity for intimacy.” I thought of my long-standing issue with “high-maintenance women” and laughed … and then kept laughing … and couldn’t stop.
Gosh, do think that might have been a bit of a give-away? Debbie clearly did. She asked, “What does this bring up for you?”
And so I told her.
I made it brief. No names, precious few details. I explained that I had broken it off because the intensity got too much for me. And I explained that I often found myself wondering, “What the hell is it with me and high-maintenance women, anyway?” (But I did not tell her that I have this blog. See, even I can learn.)
Debbie said, “Gosh, that makes me really hope I’m not a high-maintenance woman.”
I reassured her that it doesn’t look that way, using basically the same observations I made here. But then I added that this is a story I have been really afraid to tell her; that after my fear that she would laugh at me for having been in love with her all these years, my next biggest fear in the whole relationship so far has been telling her about my affair with D … because I feared she would disapprove.
She looked thoughtful. “I don’t disapprove. I don’t know what I would have done in your situation, with a marriage like what you’ve described. In general my own inhibitions have been strong enough and absolute enough that any kind of straying has been just unthinkable for me.” This explains, by the way, why years ago, when she finally figured out that our relationship at work was acquiring romantic undertones, she called in her husband to slam on the brakes. But then she mused, “Well, except for once ….” Then she told me her story. It wasn’t quite the same, though, because she had been single at the time (but the guy was married). Still, I clung desperately to her saying she didn’t disapprove ….
We had been talking for two hours. It was getting time to go. But I asked her one last question: “Have you heard of Sara Teasdale?”
“I think so. Wasn’t she a poet? I don’t know any of her work.”
“Yes, she was a poet. But I thought of her apropos of our whole discussion of intensity. Because there was this one poem of hers that I found years ago, in a textbook Wife was teaching out of back when she taught high-school English. It has stuck with me ever since." And I quoted her “Barter” (which you all know by heart from seeing it on my sidebar for so long).
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness --
Buy it and never count the cost!
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost.
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.
Very softly she said, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
We wrapped up and went our separate ways. But I have been thinking about the dinner ever since.
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