We are pleased to post our third-place winning essay in the Writing It Real Winter 2011 contest. Inez Holger’s original entry into the contest sparked a few questions from me about where I wanted to know just a little bit more. Reading through those questions, Inez polished her essay, which contest guest judge Janice Eidus chose, saying, “I admire how the writer vividly portrays her ongoing clinical depression–never asking for our sympathy, while earning our respect.” The essay went on to be accepted in an anthology out this month, the Tall Grass Writer’s Guild’s Bird in the Hand. Here is the polished version Inez re-entered according to contest rules by our contest deadline, followed by the version she had sent in for comments. You will see how small changes make an essay shine and why our judge had little trouble selecting this essay as a winner. –Ed

Shall I Fly Away?
by Inez Holger

I’m not the first person to want to get away from it all. Take, for instance, David, the Goliath-slaying troubadour of Old Testament days who pined for wings so he could fly far away. Overwhelmed with horror and fear, he longed to hide out in a restful place, he said, preferably in the wilderness. I don’t care for life in the wilderness. I just want peace, peace without the high stakes of medication. I’d also like to stay in town, close to my kids and the dog and Panera.

Here is my problem. If you could picture an emotional base line where joy is measured on a scale of (+1) to (+10), you’d see my standard level is (-2). My husband lives at a (+6). For me to get up there to a reasonable index, I have a long way to go, never mind trying to stay at that level. Even if the scent of lilacs, the sight of an orange harvest moon, or the softness of my child’s silken hair brings a smile to me, I do not experience the routine measure of joy or peace that others live with much of the time . . . the level that does not entertain the thought of wanting to scream indefinitely, until the blackness wears out and goes away. I face a chronic, desperate depression. I long to fly away. At the least, get away from myself.

St. Francis of Assisi got away from it all, and ended up talking to birds and foxes. He discarded the wealthy life he had known — just walked away — but he did not have  a husband and children staring wide eyed out the window, stunned that he could desert them for Brother Sun and Sister Moon.

I do not talk to birds but I do watch them, especially on my worst days. Something about their simplicity and single focus distracts me from myself. Outside my window, flashes of color flit in the trees: soft yellow bellies, blazing red bodies, blue backs. Early in May of each year a gray mockingbird builds a nest in the rose arbor six feet from the house. I watch today as a bird hops down into her nest site, a twig poking out from her beak. She slides through a diamond shaped opening in the arbor’s plastic grid to the branches she chose to hold a woodsy bassinet.

With her head bent forward and her tail feathers hiked high, she spends thirty seconds or so to insert the twig in the right location. No schematics or specs involved. No lengthy deliberation about circumference or density. No supervision. She sits in her nest and wiggles her belly downward to form an indentation in the clutch of wood pieces. She makes a hard home soft.

To soften my despair I have taken medication and it helps somewhat, reduces the urge for suicide, but I get too far away from my “self.” The drugs alter me. They do not simply eliminate anguish; they change my emotional make-up, shave parts away so that I do not dip so low and at the same time, not sweep too high. In order to achieve the “balance,” the pill does not allow me to swing much at all. No ecstasy, no misery, but no thrill either, and no sheer pleasure. In the case of one pill, I became so free spirited I felt on the verge of out-of-control, laughing a bit too loud, speaking a bit too much — very unlike me, unless you factor in rum.

Weight gain, lethargy, tremors, LSD-like dreams, insomnia, parched mouth — not such bad side effects, really, when the alternative is misery fathoms deep, yet I have latched onto the idea if I work at this long enough I’ll get better on my own. An even deeper belief compels me: if I pray long enough, trust God enough, and get a hold of my thoughts, I’ll rise up out of this pit and lift off like a bird to a tall tree. All I know is this: I crave to get away from my depressing self and I want to accomplish the feat without a pill.

My choice leads to degrees of isolation, first, from every person who insists I take medication, and second, from all the healthier people who carry on full speed ahead while I dither in the shadows, crying and overwhelmed. My husband carries on without me after I urge him to go, assuring him I’ll be okay.

“Some day,” he says, his voice soft, “you’ll know joy. I really believe that.” He smiles, but his eyes look watery.

To protect him, I smile back, gagging a surge of tears. Even a (+6) can only take so much, you know. Not many people can bear someone else’s vexing depression, not family or friends. Believe me, I understand — I decided long ago to limit the amount of time I spend with others so as not to weigh them down or exasperate them.

Ruddy faced David knew isolation, too. “I am like an owl of the desert,” he said. “I watch, and am like a sparrow alone upon the housetop.” He likened himself to an unclean bird, an owl (by the standards of his religion, which carried a lot of weight), dwelling alone amongst the deserted ruins.

During the day owls perch, motionless, in dark places. If threatened, the barn owl of David’s desert will pant and puff up, and drop onto its back, its stiff short legs poking the air. I sit, motionless, in my room, waiting, praying, repenting, and mentally debating how long I can make it without medicinal help. Sitting here, waiting, seems foolish, a polite hanging on to life so as not to hurt others who say they love me, so as not to disappoint them by cutting short my days. I could just as well let go. Let go and take a pill, or, let go. But I am like a gambler. One more throw of the dice and I will win this time, one more day attempting to wrestle this darkness down and I will succeed. It’s a contest of soul, a conviction of faith, a self-challenge that will build strong character in me. Or is it a thought process muddied by a viscous sickness? In reality, am I blind?

Part of the truth is that depression has altered me for the worse. The ongoing compression of this malady has changed my mental composition. A rutted pessimism runs through my brain and meets every thought with a frown or a damning accusation.

Medication alters me for better and for worse. Still, it can give me the upper hand. While I pray. While I try holistic alternatives. While I cultivate friendships. While I learn to face life with a different mindset, a hopeful one. This all takes time, more than I think I can endure.

Too much pressure and the mockingbird’s little sanctuary could break at the bottom like a worn cane chair. She repeats her twig-implant, belly-wiggle process all day long for several days, carefully thickening and pressing the nest. The bird’s brain must be the size of a pea in a hazelnut sized head, but she knows what she’s doing. Within a week the nest is complete and she crouches inside, waiting. A torrential rain hits and lingers and she does not budge.

Cold rain, pelting rain, for days, and no wobbly chicks in the nest yet. Why not fly away to a dry, cozy place? Instinct. It must be instinct telling her there is no time to build another nest before her contractions begin, before new life comes. She stays, head tucked.

Commander of war, David, who yearned to fly away at one point in his life, asked at another time, how can you tell your own soul to flee to the mountain as a bird? Make up your mind David. Do we flee or not? The full record of his days shows that when he wanted to escape and when he didn’t, he faced his sorrows and fears, trusting in divine mercy to uphold him. He often cried out in despair, bemoaning his descent into the pit, but he held fast even with no relief in sight.

Instinct compels me to stay, to live. My husband compels me.

“I think I’ll stay home with you today,” he says, wiping tears from my cheek. “We’re going to face this together.” Giants don’t faze him like they faze me.

He holds my hand; we tuck ourselves into the day, awaiting new life. He does not leave me alone in the wilderness. Such tender mercies make the hard choice of living, soft.

****

First version with Sheila’s comments:

Shall I Fly Away
By Inez Holger

I’m not the first person to want to get away from it all. David, the Goliath-slaying troubadour of Old Testament days pined for wings so he could fly far away. [SB: I think that there were and are many more between David and now. Maybe it would be better to start with a line like, “I am in good company with my desire to get away from it all.”] Overwhelmed with horror and fear, he longed to hide out in a restful place, he said, preferably in the wilderness. I don’t care for life in the wilderness. I just want peace, peace without the high stakes of medication. I’d also like to stay in town, close to my kids and the dog and Panera. [SB: I like this list and the way it ends with the surprise of a lunch place!]

Here is my problem. If you could picture an emotional base line where joy is measured on a scale of (+1) to (+10), you’d see my standard level is (-2). My husband lives at a (+6). For me to get up there to a reasonable index, I have a long way to go, never mind trying to stay at that level. Even if the scent of lilacs, the sight of an orange harvest moon, or the softness of my child’s silken hair brings a smile to me, I do not experience the routine measure of joy or peace that others live with much of the time . . . the level that does not entertain the thought of wanting to scream indefinitely, until the blackness wears out and goes away. I face a chronic, desperate depression. I long to fly away. At the least, get away from myself.

St. Francis of Assisi got away from it all, and ended up talking to birds and foxes. He discarded the wealthy life he had known — just walked away — but he did not have a husband and children staring wide eyed out the window, stunned that he could desert them for Brother Sun and Sister Moon.

I do not talk to birds but I do watch them, especially on my worst days. Something about their innocence, their single focus, and their simplicity distracts me from myself. Outside my window, flashes of color flit in the trees: soft yellow bellies, blazing red bodies, blue backs. Six feet from the house a gray mockingbird builds a nest in the rose arbor. The mockingbird hops down into her nest site, a twig poking out from her beak. She slides through a diamond shaped opening in the arbor’s plastic grid to the branches she chose to hold a woodsy bassinet. With her head bent forward and her tail feathers hiked high, she spends thirty seconds or so to insert the twig in the right location. No schematics or specs involved. No lengthy deliberation about slope, circumference, or density. She sits in her nest and wiggles her belly downward to form an indentation in the clutch of wood pieces. She makes a hard home soft. [SB: Lovely description of the birds and bird.]

To soften my despair I have taken medication and it helps somewhat, reduces the urge for suicide, but I get too far away from my “self.” The drugs alter me. They do not simply eliminate anguish; they change my emotional make-up, shave parts away so that I do not dip so low and at the same time not [SB: Do you need a word here to balance dip? Fly?] too high. In the case of one pill, I became so free spirited I felt on the verge of out-of-control. Weight gain, lethargy, tremors, LSD-like dreams, insomnia., parched mouth — not such bad side effects, really, when the alternative is misery fathoms deep, yet I have latched onto the idea if I work at this long enough I’ll get better on my own. An even deeper belief compels me: if I pray long enough, trust God enough, and get a hold of my thoughts, I’ll rise up out of this pit and lift off like a bird to a taller tree. All I know is this: I crave to get away from my depressing self and I want to accomplish the feat without a pill.

My choice leads to degrees of isolation, first, from every person who insists I take medication, and second, from all the healthier people who carry on full speed ahead while I dither in the shadows, crying and overwhelmed. And as much as I hesitate to say this, I also limit the amount of time I spend with others so as not to aggravate them and suffer their rebukes for my heavy heart and negative mind. [SB: This could be a place to put in a few examples to evoke the isolation and the way you handle others.]

Ruddy faced David knew isolation, too. “I am like an owl of the desert,” he said. “I watch, and am like a sparrow alone upon the housetop.” He likened himself to an unclean bird (by the standards of his religion, which carried a lot of weight), dwelling alone amongst the deserted ruins. [SB: I like the way this returns to David but with bird imagery.]

During the day owls perch, motionless, in dark places. If threatened, the barn owl of David’s desert will pant and puff up, and drop onto its back, its stiff short legs poking the air. I sit, motionless, in my room, waiting, praying, repenting, and mentally debating how long I can make it without medicinal help. Sitting here, waiting, seems foolish, a polite hanging on to life so as not to hurt others who say they love me, so as not to disappoint them by cutting short my days. I could just as well let go. Let go and take a pill, or, let go. But I am like a gambler. One more throw of the dice and I will win this time, one more day attempting to wrestle this darkness down and I will succeed. It’s a self-challenge that will build noble character in me, a contest of soul, a conviction of faith. Or [SB: I think you need an “is” here.] a thought process muddied by a viscous sickness. In reality, am I blind? I can not see what the truth is. [SB: Perhaps you don’t need this last sentence and can end the paragraph on “Am I blind?”]

Part of the truth is that depression has altered me for the worse. The ongoing compression of this malady has changed my mental composition. A rutted pessimism runs through my brain and meets every thought with a frown or a damning accusation. With or without a pill, I am not my true self. [SB: Again, I don’t think you need this last sentence in the paragraph as the other sentences show us how you feel you are not your true self.]

Medication will alter me for better and for worse. Still, it can give me the upper hand. While I pray. While I try holistic alternatives. While I cultivate friendships. While I learn to face life with a different mindset, a hopeful one. This all takes time, more than I think I can endure. [SB: This is so honest and so courageous to write and as reader, I appreciate it very much.]

Too much pressure and the mockingbird’s little sanctuary could break at the bottom like a worn cane chair. The bird’s brain must be the size of a pea in a hazelnut sized head, but she knows what she’s doing. She repeats her twig-implant, belly-wiggle, all day long. Within a week the nest is complete and she crouches inside, waiting. A torrential rain hits and lingers and she does not budge.

Cold rain, pelting rain, and no wobbly chicks in the nest yet. Why not fly away to a dry, cozy place? Instinct. It must be instinct telling her there is no time to build another nest before her contractions begin, before new life comes. She stays, head tucked.

Mighty David who yearned to fly away at one point in his life, asked in another, how can you tell your own soul to flee to the mountain as a bird? When he wanted to escape and when he didn’t, he faced his sorrows, trusting in divine mercy to uphold him. Instinct compels me to stay, to live. Tucked in, I look for mercies to make this hard choice soft.

[SB: This is very lovely, very strong writing. What I wish for as reader is some reference back to your husband who lives at plus six. Can we see him through your eyes, feel your appreciation for what you see though you are different than he is, more like David?]

****

It pays to have another set of eyes on a draft, even when it is nearly finished. Connecting with trusted readers and editors for this kind of help is essential to writers.