I'm Glimmering!

I've recovered from my depression, I think (* knock wood *).

Recent linocut fabric patches by Sara.

It began a week ago Sunday, on July 6, during my weekly Zoom call with my brother and sister: a sense that I was beginning to rise from the darkness, moodwise — of experiencing what I’ve taken to calling “glimmers.” I was suddenly aware of a lightening in my soul, as if just beginning to come up from the ocean depths. It had been weeks and weeks since my last glimmers, and — despite my generally optimistic temperament — I was seriously beginning to fear that the rest of my life would be spent in the deep depression that began late last December.

I’d had only a handful of those glimmerings, and they tended to go like this: I’d publish a Substack post, usually late in the evening, and then become aware of a lift in my mood. Suddenly music rushed back into my life: after a long nearly music-less period, I couldn’t stop listening to songs I loved. The greatest change was in my energy level. When I’m depressed, I’m absolutely exhausted! It’s super-weird how hard it is to do nothing all day — and to try to feel nothing. Over those seven-plus months — and, alas, the several months last year when I endured my previous depression — I spent virtually all my time either in bed or on the living-room couch. Standing was difficult — and when I did stand up, my legs were shaky, both from the depression’s depletions and from having completely given up my regular exercise routine. A ringing phone — probably a call from someone I love — would jolt me into a panic. Brushing my teeth, showering, and — God forbid — getting dressed and going out: that, difficulty-wise, was like climbing a terrible mountain. I basically had only one thought: I must get as close as possible to total inertness. More than a thought — it was a compulsion: Lie down and curl up, hopefully forever. In the wee hours of the night, I’d briefly awake, and glory in the fact that there would still be several more hours before the sun came up and the world around me came to life; then I’d go back to sleep. I have a sleep-tracking app on my watch. Every morning it would congratulate me for exceeding my eight-hour sleep goal: “You slept for 18 hours!” Like: Wow, thanks — I’m basically a zombie.

The great irony is that my life is unimaginably blessed, and I am surrounded by love — family and friends. Of course we have all been going through the tremendous trauma of an attempted fascist takeover of our beautiful country — but even as Sara was spending countless hours doing protest things, including making the wonderful patches she gives away for free, I’d mostly just be lying nearby on the couch. Throughout my childhood, my father, Paul, warned me that we might have to fight fascists one day — and now here I was, basically useless. My thoughts were very, very dark, and for perhaps the first time in my life I was beginning to lose hope.

Sara was amazing! She kept assuring me, You’re still in there somewhere! She believed I would recover. She’d point out that I still hated cauliflower, so I must still be me. And yet my previous deep depressions had lasted no longer than two (awful) months — and now here I was, mostly in the same miserable state for the better part of a year.

Early on in this depression, I found I could get some comfort from reading books. But then I mostly lost the ability to concentrate — or even get up from the couch — for any length of time. I kept picturing Buster Keaton struggling against the wind in Steamboat Bill, Jr.: just staying in place was a preposterous challenge; forget about moving forward.

I was tired. Super-tired. All the time.

And yet a part of me (the part that doesn’t like cauliflower) was somehow observing all this and thinking, This is nuts! What the hell is that guy (me) doing?

I talked to myself — often in self-lacerating terms. I did this weird humming thing. Sometimes, as if to free myself from a spell, I’d shake my arms around and make high squealing sounds.

And then, every month or so, I’d get glimmers. As I said, these generally began after I wrote a Substack. I think — based on how many times I tried and failed — that even my ability to write a whole post was possible only because I’d begun to feel a bit better. Then I’d publish, and get your responses, and I’d start feeling a lot better. Often I’d get so jazzed that I’d stay up through the night and most of the next day — the whole time glorying in my elevated mood. But then, of course, at some point I’d have to go to sleep — and horrifyingly, when I woke up, I was usually back in that deep depression. It was like for that one day I was myself again, reveling in the joy of being alive and around people I love, and then I’d turn back into this … other thing. This morose, inactive creature on the couch. And yet, I saw, the people I loved still loved me just as much. This came as kind of a revelation. I think that’s because, growing up with beautiful but very emotionally fragile parents, I’d always associated being loved with being entertaining (probably why I became a performer). But never with just being. With just being me. And here I was — less than me. Depressed Me, sucking life out of the world, at a time when the world needed all of us to devote ourselves to the common good.

Why was Substacking to you kind folks so uniquely helpful? As I’ve described before, writing for publication had always been nearly impossible for me. Back in the ’80s, when I worked as a copyeditor at the Boston Phoenix (and made several of my dearest lifelong friends), I was legendary for the majestic inertia of my writer’s block. Every time I tried to write an article (and my dream was to become a writer), I’d end up writing and rewriting and re-rewriting the lede paragraph over and over, through the night. It was so terrifying imagining people eventually reading my words, nothing that came out of me seemed remotely usable. So when I discovered performing as a monologuist, I quickly gave up trying to create an actual script (like, you know, Shakespeare) and instead began improvising in front of audiences.

That’s still how I create my solo shows. I do lots and lots of improvs, and then I somehow get brilliant theater people to collaborate with me. Doing this Substack came out of desperation at having almost no gigs, especially during Covid. I was amazed to find that I could actually sit down, type up some obviously imperfect stuff, and still hit “Publish.” And I discovered that I loved having this particular relationship with you, my readers — a relationship that, unlike when I perform, happens out of sync with my creation of the text. Since you’re not sitting in front of me, I have to imagine you. And then I get your feedback, and it’s … well, magical.

When I got depressed, I fell way off my usual schedule of publishing once a week or so. But when I did manage to get out a post, even just picturing folks reading my words made me feel less alone. At one point, desperate to get relief from my depression for longer than a day, I decided I’d try to write a post every day. But I just couldn’t: I’m not an expert in anything, and — unlike some amazing Substackers and other bloggers, whom I read with enormous appreciation — I just don’t have that much knowledge to share! Still, every month or so I’d manage to get myself to put out a post, usually resulting in about 24 hours of glimmering.

A week ago Sunday, after my Zoom with my dear brother and sister, I felt better than I had in a long time. Then I wrote and published a post, and I felt a bit better. My family, of course, was thrilled. I was thrilled. But, as in some fairy tale, I feared that once I finally went to sleep I’d turn back into a pumpkin. And yet Monday rolled around, and I woke up — and I still wasn’t depressed! As the days progressed, I felt progressively better — more myself.

Pithy! (Quarter for scale.)

And not just emotionally. The physical transformation has been remarkable as well. Released from the enervating exertions of constantly pushing against the winds of depression, I started doing things! Walking around my neighborhood! (Still very slowly and haltingly, as I was now incredibly out of shape.) A bit over a week later, I still have to stop several times, even on a short walk. But then I keep going. Time has started to move again for me. I’m sleeping normal hours again, and I wake up feeling refreshed and excited — even before my morning coffee! Wow — I’m getting another day of miraculous life!

And more and more, I can make it to the protests with Sara, handing out her amazing patches and looking into the eyes of other protestors who share my deep love of democracy and terror of losing it. I’m hoping soon to get back into biking-and-birding with Sara, which had become almost a daily activity for us.

I’m even performing again! A couple of months ago, even though I was mired in depression, it occurred to me that it might be cool to develop a new piece about what I’ve been going through — as well as the traumas we’ve all been going through since the election. My inspiration was the dialogues I’ve been having with you, my readers, as I’ve tried to write about some of the ways that resisting depression and fascism might be related. So lately I’ve started doing improvs toward a new monologue, titled What Is To Be Done?: Fighting Fascism and Depression, at The Marsh in Berkeley. (If you happen to be around here, and want to catch an improv, tix and info can be found here.) I told my friend Stephanie Weisman, founder and artistic director of The Marsh, that I was extremely worried about improvising while I was mired in a depression — something I’d never done before. I mean, just getting out of the house and to the theater would be a major challenge. Good-naturedly, she suggested that if I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to the audience, I could just lie down on a psychiatrist’s couch onstage for 90 minutes. And I thought, Hey, that would finally make me a real performance artist!

I’ve also continued working on an incredibly fun movie loosely based on the life and work of my late second cousin (once removed) Cyril M. Kornbluth, who was a brilliant science-fiction writer, in collaboration with writer Jonathan Lethem and producer Alex da Silva. We had our most recent shoot early last month, in Southern California, and as excited as I was (and am) about this project, I was worried about doing a good job — in fact, about whether I could make it to the location! But the enormous kindness of my collaborators buoyed me — even as I struggled with both the depression and the debilitating nausea of the medication I was trying then.

To my family — and to my friends, some of whom have taken to talking with me weekly, to help me make it through this period: thank you! To you, my dear readers: thank you! As we battle a vicious assault on our democracy, it’s community — including the remarkable amount of joy and hope that one feels at every protest — that sustains us. I do believe that, despite all the awful things that some people are doing, and have done, human beings are fundamentally loving and empathetic. It’s natural to connect with kindness.

Now more than ever before, I am hopeful that in our current struggles, we will experience more and more glimmers. And I look forward to being more and more participatory in the Resistance, as I continue to build myself back up.

Admittedly, I still do fear lapsing back into depression. I delayed writing this post because I was worried I’d jinx my recovery (* pausing to compulsively knock wood *). But of course nothing is preordained — except, as my dad liked to point out, the fact that there is always change. (“That’s the thing that never changes, my son!”) Wow, I miss him! And I miss my mom, who passed away two years ago. I believe that they both experienced depression as well. To anyone reading this who suffers from depression, or who loves someone who does, I plead: Don’t give up hope!

Even in the depths of my depression — even when I started believing I might not ever get better — my red-diaper-baby upbringing never allowed me to totally give up on defeating the authoritarians, the racists, those damaged people who think they can derive pleasure from the suffering of others. I’ve always believed that we, in the Resistance, will win. Now I both believe it and feel it.

Which is not to say that hard times aren’t ahead. Of course they are. But there is a powerful beauty, and a beautiful power, in how we care so deeply for one another. We get this remarkable, fleeting chance at being alive for a time — and the more of us get to proclaim our collective love, the closer we get to creating the society we dream of.

In gratitude,
Josh