The Reasons Why

by

Richard Cody

For

Sarah Cody

No. 4

I love you because
loving you is completely natural for me.

I take air no easier.

And if I have ever loved you thoughtlessly
it is only because,
like the air we breathe,
the dearest things are taken too much for granted.

My post of 12/18/03 regarding my intermittent struggles with anxiety and depression, and the post-hypnotic suggestions (planted by an unknown agency) responsible for those black states of mind - or, as I referred to it, the poison program in my mind- was best summed up by the emoticon Ray left as a comment:

; )

I was, indeed, winking as I typed that post. None the less, there is more truth than not in those words. The depression and anxiety, for instance, are all too true. And the poison program that is responsible for them? Also true, though I will leave it to anybody who cares to try to decide whether or not I was serious about the post-hypnotic suggestions.

I have struggled with depression (off and on) for most of my life now (since it first manifested, I think, as more-or-less typical teenage angst and alienation) and I have long felt - even before I was capable of articulating it as such - that my dark turns were the result of negative patterns of thought - or a negative program (of course, it is also possible that the depression is at least partially related to the mild Tourette's which haunts my brain). Observe, if you will, a piece of juvenilia, written by myself at approximately 15-16 years of age (these are the opening lines of a slightly longer piece):

I'm grinding down like some fatal machine,
finely tuned to self destruct. . .

Evidence of that urge to self destruction can be found on my forearms, where the scars of razor blades applied during teenage episodes of self-mutilation remain. The extent to which that urge has been indulged is not a subject I am willing to address in this blog at this time (suffice to say, I'm still here!). Nor are the real reasons for the urge and the depression that spawned it, only recently - as in two days ago! - revealed to me after a lengthy process of introspection and, primarily, discussion with Sarah - my lover, my wife, my best friend, soulmate and therapist.

Thanks to Sarah, I now have a name for the beast that has tormented me all these years. I now have the code to the program that has been oppressing my mind. But, as I say, I am not prepared to reveal that name here and now, due mainly to the sensitive nature of this topic and the public nature of this blog. I have considered beginning an anonymous blog for the dissection of my depression, but that is not likely to happen as the maintenance of this blog - in addition to my writing and life in general - are more than enough to keep me busy.

In summation, this post is basically an announcement, vague as it is, that I have made a breakthrough in understanding the cause of my depression, and a big THANK YOU to my beloved Sarah for helping me to make that breakthrough.

12/18/03

@ the Transbay Terminal

Racing down the ramp

arms akimbo, there she goes!

woman in wheelchair.


1/6/04

@ the Bus Stop (SF)

Headphones on, she moves

hands carving air, feet here and there -

Tai-Chi Disco dance!


1/7/04

Full Bus (NX1)

Standing room only

and man behind me sneezes

for the entire trip.

Ugh. It's true and, though I feared contagion, I wrote it down - last of the three most recent scribblings from The Jewel in The Moment.

These scenes come to me and, as I say, I right them down. If I was a painter you might see that young Asian lady dancing in acrylics, or possibly charcoal, instead of words - stilted, static words poorly conceived to describe dance of any kind. A dance is a dance. Even the best of words can only approach the fluidity of dance with oblique references, sidelong glances at the periphery of vision as the dancer weaves itself by.

The moment, by the time I have written it down, is already dissipated, an event moving out of time and space through memory and all too soon into the great black wash of forget.

But this moment was written down. Think of all those that are not, trailing like a wake behind us as we make our ways through time, many barely glimpsed, most unrecognized completely, some of our better moments lost. . .

Winter Commute

How sad and sullen the houses seem
from the windows of the morning train.

How dull and dreary my passenger kin
after a night long and wet with Winter rain.

Our tickets stamped and validated
we commute through Death's favorite season.

Through cold and gray we move daily forward
though I forget the reason.

An old one, though it might have been written yesterday. The mood remains a familiar one. I am, however, taking the bus these days.