The Black Dog in the Background

                I find that the words do not come as easily the second time around. This blog topic may take me more than a day to tackle (and it did), even if it only results in one single post, not simply because of the girth of information which I can (and may attempt to) integrate into this post, but because of all the topics I can choose to discuss, this one hits closer to home than any other, and I have never felt more of a need to censor—and even that word seems inadequate—my word choice. What I really want is to make sure, with each individual word, that I am making the proper choice to express myself.

                We are taught by some of the best writers to write what we know—and I am a firm believer in this. This allows the writer to provide experience which then allows their writing to resonate with a genuineness, occasionally subtle, sometimes almost palpable in its nature. Honesty between writer and reader builds not only a relationship of trust and respect, but also in some cases can allow the reader a glimpse into first-hand accounts of topics which would otherwise remain shrouded in a certain degree of secrecy and unfamiliarity to them.

                In a world populated so immensely by social media websites which insist upon the sharing of mundane bits of one’s daily activities, I occasionally wonder if we have become somewhat crippled in our ability to share the more important things. People often seem to be torn between two extremes: whether or not they should share EVERYTHING (and let’s be honest, the correct answer is no; your sushi lunch may have been delicious, but we are really not that interested in how #yummy it was) or share virtually nothing, as everyone ELSE seems to be oversharing. Again, the answer is no—there is always something to be said or shown, and always someone willing to listen.

                And that is one of the most important things I could possibly say, as today I’m going to talk about depression. Depression is never an easy topic to discuss—we shy away from it so frequently, because that’s easier than facing the grim reality that is this mental illness. I’ve heard countless mentions from someone whose recollections about her upbringing are sprinkled with what she now recognizes to be glaring signs of this same disease in her mother. It was, she tells me, completely ignored—swept under the rug, cloaked in the darkness of silence, a problem the words for which were known, but knowingly locked away behind the tight lips of society.

                I was diagnosed with depression pretty early on in life—as least, it seemed early to me. My struggles seemed normal in the face of youthful ignorance, as well as in the face of the growing pains which we all stumble through in the rougher years of adolescence, that rugged terrain of teenage years. I had no concept that my problems were of a more severe nature, as I was so hesitant to share them. I was blessed, and have continued to be blessed, with a phenomenal support system found in the kind arms, and more often the ears, of friends and family who have been invaluable in my ability to cope. I don’t recall feeling stigmatized by that first diagnosis in my earlier years, mostly because it was not something made public unless I chose to do so—but it did come later, and it hit hard. I felt at times that my depression was an inescapable tenet of my self-identity, a hideous leech that tore and sucked at the flesh of my happiness and comfort, and at times at my sense of self-worth. Even on good days, I would worry that I would carry such a burden for the entirety of my life, a thought terrifying in the enormity of its scope, and a thought which I felt had already been solidified as a reality for my future, with no hope of an alternate route.

                There are no green buttons or red levers to pull in the mind that immediately eradicate these thoughts; it is never that simple. Ricky Gervais summed it up in the most perfect of ways on a recent Facebook post: “Telling people with depression to “just snap out of it” is as about as useful as telling people with cancer to “just stop having cancer”.” It’s much easier to ask someone to “cheer up” than it is to face the reality that it isn’t that simple for them. Many people may not recognize that depression can have biological roots, linked with chemical imbalances in the brain, such as that of serotonin, as well as problems with the limbic system and neurotransmitters. Certain distressing emotional episodes can trigger a major depressive episode for some, this is true; but we must recognize that the presence of depression as a disorder is not as simple as thinking someone is upset over a bad day.

                I mentioned the difficulties that depression brought into my life. These must be balanced, however, with the immense personal growth which my diagnosis has provided me with, the most important being a recognition that I am not my diagnosis. My depression does not define me as a whole, yet I do not disregard its existence. I own my diagnosis—and am all the stronger for recognizing that my flaws make me who I am, in no way diminishing my value as a person. Properly coping with depression is difficult, that is undeniable—but, as I said, I have been blessed beyond words (although I will try to express myself nonetheless) with the finest and most loving of support groups, who may never know just how important their words and actions are to me. Proper therapy, and in some cases, added medication, can help alleviate the difficulties that depression presents. As someone who has gone through this, I feel the need to remind everyone else going through it that there is always hope out there, and happiness to be had.

                This post is not to dampen your day, it’s not to elicit pity in any way for what I have gone through, or for what anyone else goes through on a daily basis when they suffer from depression. In fact, I would like to take this time to remind everyone reading that those who suffer from this disease are not weaker for it. I found an image recently, shared by a friend brave enough to circulate it on her social media site—I hesitate to say brave, as it then makes inescapable the rather unfortunate reality that many wouldn’t share such an image on their Facebook page for fear of some sort of negative judgment on the parts of their friends, again linked with the stigmatized topic of depression. The image starts out with one of the most wonderful summations that I have come across: “Depression, anxiety and panic attacks are not a sign of weakness. They are signs of having tried to remain strong for so long.” It ends with a reminder to the reader to do one of the most important things anyone CAN do for those who struggle: “Let those who struggle know—they are never alone.” In a few brief sentences, this image has taken the negative assumption that those who suffer from depression do so because they lack some sort of strength, either in their soul or their mind, and turned it completely on its head, while reminding everyone—those both familiar and unfamiliar with it—that the most important thing you can do is simply be there for someone. I think we often forget that just because the world is so populated does not mean we are not subject to loneliness and feelings of isolation—and the kindest thing we can do for someone subject to such feelings is to remind them that there is ALWAYS someone there.

                As I said, I know such discussions are never easy. But it is my hope that in posting this, and bringing this subject to light once more, we can cast aside the mask of fear and ignorance that has kept so many quiet about such a substantial issue, and take steps—be they small or large—in our daily lives towards a greater understanding of this problem.

"Twinning": Much more than a hashtag

Hello again!

                We’re just going to blatantly ignore the lengthy passage of time between my last post and now. I will not feign an exhausting sense of busyness, because in my opinion one of the cruelest lies is that there is never time to write—be it a novel, a short story, a journal entry, a love letter, a simple reminder of the fact that at this moment in time you are living and breathing and capable in some manner of conscious thought. There is always time for the written word, for without it where would we be? On the whole, as a race, and on a much smaller scale, as an individual? Do we not glean a fair amount of our self-identities from the written word and all it has brought about? But, I transgress; these are topics for another time, perhaps tomorrow?)

                Today I bid adieu to my sister as she departed for Barcelona, Spain. She’s accepted a teaching job there, you see, at an international school, a position which has brought a great sense of excitement and pride to her, as this is a job she has secured through only her own skills and drive. It was only yesterday that her departure was solidified; her attempts at securing a visa have resulted in extensive aggravation and uncertainty. For now, she will leave on a tourist visa, and complete her full working visa at a later point.

                I won’t attempt to elaborate on her emotions during the process, as I could comprehend but a fraction of the feelings which must have dominated her waking hours: excitement, anxiety, a certain terror at the future which now loomed before her, undoubtedly daunting to some degree. Leaving the nest is an essential experience of life, true—this fact, however, does not abate the nerves which accompany such a transition.

                For weeks now we have known that she would leave, without the privilege of a set date. The simple fact of knowing that she would be moving to Spain for a year (with a small break in December to return home and grace the family with her enigmatic presence) spawned a question which I was continuously bombarded with: “So, are you going to miss your sister?”

                I’m a twin, which in the eyes of what seems like a ridiculously large majority of the world, makes my relationship with my sister very special. It’s as if the moment it’s discovered that we shared the womb for nine months, my interesting factor skyrockets in the eyes of the public. “Oh! You’re a twin! That must be so cool!” “I always wanted a twin!” “Is it awesome? It must be awesome.” “So you guys are like, best friends right?” The only surface that could keep a tally of the number of times I have been subject to these statements is probably the Great Wall of China. Anyone who has ever made these statements to me has never been a twin themselves (as goes without saying for the second one), and so to them the idea—more accurately stated, the ideal—seems a carefully crafted fantasy of sibling intimacy and friendship. And as much as I hate to shatter that ideal, here goes: it’s not that amazing.

                To me, being a twin has never proved to be an extraordinary experience. In reality, or in my reality at least, the fact of my twinship (it’s not a word, but for all intents and purposes of this blog post, I shall utilize it as one, with the loosely given definition of “the friendship and sibling relationship which extends from being a twin”) has simply been that I have grown up with a sibling my age. There seems to have grown this idea that twins share not only the womb for nine months, but a wide range of similar interests, aspirations, tendencies, and mannerisms. This has never been the case for my sister and I. When I recently had the privilege of Skyping with one of my favorite artists, who I also knew to be a twin, I was again reminded—from the opposite side of the gender fence—that not all twins need to be close or similar in any way shape or form, as he recounted to me the divide which exists in their self-identities and the effect it has played on their relationship.

                The fact that most people’s first introductions to twins, at least for my generation, were the Olsen twins and Tia and Timera Mowry only helped to ingrain such fallacies. Truth be told, Liz and I have never been best friends—elementary school found us friendly, but separate, while middle school only deepened the divide which had always existed between us. High school, needless to say, was not much kinder in bringing us together, and college brought about a physical distance as well as the psychological one which already existed, as she studied in upstate New York and I studied in southwestern Virginia. While Liz’s interests spanned dancing and pop culture, mine dwelled in the literary realms with a spark for theater. We did not grow up hating each other; cat fights with hair pulling were never the norm with us. We simply never meshed in the sense that most people (who are not twins themselves, be they fraternal or identical) expected twins to do. I’m sure the fact that we are fraternal, and, as I like to so frequently stress when enlightening people to the existence of my twin, “as fraternal as fraternal gets”, served as a great basis for the exacerbation of our differences in the later years. Physically, we have always looked different, to such a degree as many people often mistook my cousin for my sister more quickly than they guessed Liz to be her. In the past year, however, many have asked us if we are related—sisters is the first thing they say, although a kind cashier at Dunkin Donuts the other day left us momentarily speechless when she asked if we were twins.

                I have always thought of Liz as a sister first, and a twin second—she the same, I think it is fair to say, as she frequently refers to her best friend as being closer to a twin to her than I am. I take no offense to this—M, as her friend likes to be called, fills a gap which I wholeheartedly recognize I will never be able to fill. The two of them have a relationship based solidly on shared musical interests, a healthy affinity for bars, and a wealth of shared experiences accumulated over the years as they studied in college together. Yet I recognize that at the same time I cannot fill M’s place, she cannot fill mine. I have found that there is a certain relationship which can only grow to fruition between siblings living under the same roof—and as a subset of that, there is a certain relationship only sisters can have, if they so choose to nurture it. And, finally, there is a special relationship which only twins can have—in our case, two girls, destined to experience many of life’s trials and tribulations at the same time—but not all; it must be worked at. It is the accumulation of these experienced which are shared at the same time, formulating a comradery which cannot be simulated, and those experienced at different intervals, which allow the imparting of wisdom between twins, which mold such a relationship.

                So when asked if I will miss my sister, I said no. To me, the distance which exists between us proves meaningless—our relationship will not dwindle with the passing of weeks and months. Many may think this cold and distant, not to miss someone with whom I have shared so much. My only reply is that “not missing her” means in no way that my love for her is lessened in any degree than it would be should I say that I do miss her. The important thing to me is not whether or not I miss my sister—but whether I wish her all the best in this new endeavor, and all the faith that I have in her ability to work towards the future that she wants. And both of these are boundless.

"In Dreams" Movie Review

              As far as horror movies go, Neil Jordan’s “In Dreams” is a bit hard to classify. In basic terms, it’s a psychological slasher flick, a category which nowadays seems to be dwindling quickly. Most slasher flicks have completely disregarded the aspect of mental instability or deterioration that was once so characteristic of serial killers (excluding Freddy Krueger, to a degree).

                The film opens with some dramatic, dark-shadowed shots of a drowning town which the audience is introduced to in stark white block-lettered captions: “In 1965 the town of Northfield was evacuated to create the Northfield Reservoir. Two billion gallons of water flooded the empty streets, obliterating all memory of the lives once lived there, leaving a drowned ghost town.” The block letters are quickly replaced by a credit font resembling the chalkboard scribbles of a child, accompanied by some striking underwater images of scuba divers probing what one supposes to have previously been the town of Northfield.  Resurfacing in the midst of a lake near police boats, the atmosphere of discomfort is palpable, but the reasoning is unclear. From here the camera pans out to the angelic Rebecca Cooper, the embodiment of innocence, wandering with her mother Claire (Annette Bening). Within the next 1:51 minutes, the plot becomes apparent: Claire suffers from clairvoyance (no pun intended). Measured by Aidan Quinn’s carefully uncomfortable expression, her complaint of dreams is nothing new to her husband Paul. What would be a simple case of missing child quickly falls along the lines of the show “Medium” as Claire proffers to use her gift to locate a missing child from town, who is clearly not going to return. Whether or not Claire’s decision to assist is rooted in a desire to escape the discomforts of such a chimera, or because of the all-too-noticeable resemblance between the young child and Claire’s own daughter, is a choice which the viewer must make, as Jordan doesn’t adequately answer such a question. 
             She frequently bemoans the misfortune of her visions, feeling the unbridled skepticism from both her husband and Detective Jack Kay (Paul Guilfoyle, reminiscent of his CSI character Jim Brass, sans-sarcasm). Claire’s perception of such an inconvenience quickly shifts when she realizes that the connection she seems to hold with the serial killer may be manipulated, if she can manage to interpret the images dominating her mind. 
               What I will commend Jordan on is his unrelenting imagery. The obvious symbolic meaning of the color red, throughout the movie, can in no way be lost on any audience member, however they should interpret it: passion, life, vulnerability, love, danger, take your pick. Jordan’s costume choice for Bening in several scenes, a flowing red chiffon gown, is absolutely essential, giving physical vent to Claire’s unwavering passion. 
                Yet another powerful aspect that Jordan engages in is the use of parallels, an element whose presence seems rare in such films nowadays. Perhaps the most constant is that of Snow White, the best explanation for the inescapable presence of the radiant red apples throughout the movie. The indisputable innocence of the abducted children clearly mirrors that of fictional Snow White, while the “evil stepmother” is rather redefined in the character of the killer. Yet another example, that of Claire’s mental institution breakout, is beautifully paralleled in a series of flashback scenes to the serial killer’s own childhood escape from the same hospital: same room in fact, a coincidence which would be laughable if not for Bening’s ability to exude a sense of mental instability. 
                While it is necessary to reveal the killer’s identity in order to truly review this movie, it is my sincere belief that such knowledge in no way detracts from the enjoyment of this movie.  Robert Downey Jr. is phenomenal as Vivian Thompson, the emotionally volatile killer with an obviously disturbed childhood. Downey is perfect at projecting the childlike innocence of a man who was never groomed for adulthood, yet has always had the misfortune to know violence. The combination of script contents and line delivery is absolutely chilling: “I am so so sorry sorry sorry Claire. All I wanted was a family.” The soft, lulling tone with which he says “family” would render any heart broken, should his vicious tendencies remain unknown. The simplicity of his sentences and the desperation with which he craves Claire’s approval are irrefutably reminiscent of a child. One wants so deeply to believe that Claire is truthful when she promises Vivian to love him “like Momma loves Dad.”
                It quickly becomes clear through the abducted child Ruby’s childlike obliviousness, however, that Vivian’s psychological deficiencies are profound: he has been known to dress like his mother and modify his voice to fit the role. Freud would have a field day with such a character as Vivian.

                While “In Dreams” is far from a gem of a movie, it is reasonably enjoyable, and on a deeper level, somewhat thought-provoking. Whether or not Jordan is making some form of commentary on fate versus choice, if one were to analyze Vivian and Claire and their subsequent actions, is a question which will never grace the world with a proper answer. Perhaps that is for the best: it is uncertainty which makes the mind yearn with even more passion.

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"solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris"

   "Misery loves company." That was the direct translation given to me by my version of Milton's "Paradise Lost" when I was a fledgling freshman, dabbling in studies of British literature. Personally I believe it to be a fitting phrase for one who so frequently indulges in introspection. One eighteenth cenutry newspaper, The Female Spectator, reported on the dangers of  lives devoted solely to socializing or solely to self-reflection. According to the author of this piece, proper maintenance of the two allows one a healthier disposition. Such musings touch upon the most base of psychological traits, introversion and extraversion. While these words have drawn distinct lines in the minds of those who hear them, is it truly fair to argue that the two are indistinguishable? As Jung pointed out, in order for one to exist, the other must as well, believing that the body would contain both (such as the idea of one who is consciously feminine must be unconsciously masculine, or one who is consciously masculine must be unconsciously feminine:  the animus and the anima).
   Not to worry, constant reader, this is merely a musing to accustom myself to the mechanics of a blog. That, and a little late night cogitation never harmed a soul.