The Furious Spinner

I’ve written about depression here many times. I’ve described it as being like a genetic rabid dog, chasing my family from generation to generation. I most recently wrote about it in my essay “Home Body.” I spoke to one of my younger sisters, Michelle, a few days after I’d written that (although she hadn’t read it yet). She encouraged me to write more about the family. I told her I didn’t want any of them to feel like I was violating their privacy, so I tried not to name names, yet I wanted to write about my life and they were a part of my life. She surprised me by saying she thought it was fascinating to read someone else’s view of the family. Everyone sees history differently, from their own perspective. She gave me permission to write about her in the context of my life. I said, “Well, then, you might be interested in this post.” And I told her about “Home Body.”

She read it, then wrote an email to me. With her permission, I am publishing part of it here. I’m doing this for two reasons. One, it’s beautiful. I told her she should be the writer. Two, regular readers know that I’ve argued it’s better to talk about things than to keep them secret. In “Home Body” I spoke about my grandfather’s suicide and my mother’s depression. Depression is a disease, not a secret. I think this letter is a testimony to the value of telling our stories. My sister is able to describe, in just a few sentences, what it is like to live with someone who is depressed. She calls it “it.” Precisely. Exactly. “It” was a thing that invaded our home and never left.

Here’s an excerpt of what Michelle said, “...It is interesting how different some of our memories are...the context in which we lived our lives and interpret our surroundings....I think its neat though that we both had an incredible love for the land and realized its value...that it lives with us, that we saw the land as much more than property, but more like a friend with its own rights and value.

“Although many of our memories are different...many are the same or similar....like the marsh flooding & having our own world for skating...(even with all of its marsh grass). Mom painting the wall...I know I had mixed feelings at the time but I often tell people about mom doing that—they look at me like what, how odd!!! And I look at them like ‘too bad your mom wasn't like that as you don't know what you missed.' I remember Mom's short hair & her choice of clothes, that she'd spontaneously start projects like carpentry...building that doll house & other wood projects, the painting....drawing...more paintings on the walls in the house & the car...playing the tambourine when Johnny Cash came on TV...belly dancing for Dad...or how when she was feeling well how her spurts of energy could suddenly make eating watermelon on a hot summer day seem like the next best thing to whatever that ‘best’ thing is...

“....and then....I remember her incredible sadness...her futile attempts to be happy.....to find that fix...her desperation...you could feel it, like it had its own life. I hated ‘it’...

“I, too, have always found Mom to be incredibly supportive...wanting us to know we had/have value however we turned out...& knowing that she seemed a little worried that we would not find our places in the world...and how she wanted so much for us to not be afraid, to be happy...."

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