Analysis of the Daemon Dragons of Depression, Part 1

I want to examine WHY I refer to depressive episodes as battles with dragons, and why I call depression the daemon dragon (with many heads, no doubt!).

Depressive episodes are periods of time with varying lengths of feeling lower than a snake: I have often said that I could wear a top hat and still walk be under a snake. Depressive episodes ARE NOT a couple of blue or sad days. Depressive episodes are feeling like I'm in the bottom of a dark pit with no way to get out: if I try, I'll only become entangled in caves where dragons hang out.

I feel the depressive episodes in my body; sometimes in the form of darts attacking me in the middle of the night, sometimes waking up in the morning feeling as though a Mack truck has run over me, and sometimes spending a lot of the day thinking negative, sad, miserable thoughts about my self and how I've lived my life. Plus every single bad thing that has ever occurred in my life haunts me during those dark days. I obsessively go over each thing until I think I'll go stark raving mad if I continue. My thinking is skewed: there are times when the strangest thoughts go through my mind. Even if someone I don't know stares at me, I'm convinced they can "see" my evil insides. Now THAT'S strange, 'cuz I know in my heart and mind that I am NOT evil by nature or behaviour.

Why do I use the term depressive episodes? Because the feelings that overwhelm me, sucking energy and love from my life, do not actually totally disappear when I'm NOT depressed, but I can in fact handle them with logical thinking. The depressive episodes I have now last fewer days than when I was a teenager who had NO IDEA what the hell was happening to me when I'd go into a depressive time. Episodic depression seems so much easier for ME to handle than the thought that I live in a depressed state ALL the time. I do not live depressed all the time: I have great days, days with joy and laughter, and love too! Nobody can live depressed all the time for years on end: if we did, we'd end our lives to end the misery.

So who are the dragons?

Hopelessness: Nothing I have done, do, or could do will EVER change ANYTHING in my life. When I'm battling the dragons, the whole event takes over my entire life. I quite often become the depressed person when I'm disappointed with the outcome of whatever decision I made, so guilt and blame come into play as well. Whatever choices I do make won't be any better. In fact, they'll only get me further into troubles. Kind of a sad way to live, isn't it? No wonder some people are successful in suicides when they are depressed! Who wants to live in a world where hope has disappeared?

Negativity: The core dragon and it's as though there is a withering fog weaving all through the days of my life, from past to present, and what hope is there to even wish anything good for the future, based on past defeats and trials.

Isolation: I feel as though I have nothing in me worth talking about, or being around others. Who the hell do I think I am? Besides, if I leave my home, I'll wind up bursting into tears for absolutely no reason and make myself look even more foolish! What a strange dichotomy of thinking: I don't want to look foolish for people who don't even care about me because I'm unlovable and unremarkable in the first place? THAT'S very convoluted thinking.

Lack of self-esteem: I always felt that anything I ever did was never good enough as a youngster, that I simply cannot ever be good enough in my life: in no area in my life do I even have a chance to be good enough.

What, exactly, does "good enough" mean? Hmmm . . . I do not live up to these impossible magical standards I make up. Seriously strange thinking.

Darkness: No joy or laughter and no ability to conjure up those feelings. No interest in doing anything that I’d normally do: from cleaning dishes to clearing up a room to talking to people on the telephone. Certainly I would not answer anyone ringing the doorbell! There is a permeating sense of no sunlight and no happiness possible, ever.

There are more, but I am going to stop for now before I accidentally call up any of those dragons I've been writing about: I have learned some lessons and now know when to stop thinking about the daemon dragons, even analytically.

I use the term daemon, spelled that way purposefully, to remind myself that it is an old-fashioned concept, but with great evil intent against the purpose of my life!

And remember, DRAGONS are mythical creatures. They do not exist except in our imaginations. While there may be some substance to the concept of large flying creatures who hide in caves since scientists now believe that birds are adapted dinosaurs, the flying dragons of our nightmares and stories certainly do not appear in any form in real life now, other than the feelings I get when depressed.

If I get inspired and feel safe enough not to go into the dark caves where I might lose my sense of direction, I'll analyze and write more about depressive episodes and daemon dragons as I see, feel and experience them. Physical illness leads sometimes to depressions, as do stress and exhaustion, so I'm going to stop now because I‘m currently not in a strong physical place.

Love to all, and I'm hoping that each of us will find a personal epiphany in this analytical expression of the darker side of life.

Employment and Dating Elitism

I have never understood the stigma associated with certain jobs: pink collar, blue collar, white collar, greasy collar, or no collar, whatever! Nor do I understand why certain men in powerful positions believe they deserve something special from the women they deign to date.

I have worked at so many different jobs and found much of interest in them. I've served hot dogs to college students, taught first-year University students, worked with elementary students with mental and/or physical handicaps, and taught intellectually elite students who were being trained in a special classroom where the average student IQ far outstripped mine. My IQ is nothing shabby, but let me tell you, some of those students were totally brilliant. They had a unique way of thinking and creatively solving problems.

I have known professors at the University who would not survive if you put them downtown in a large city and told them to get back to the University. That is a simple task for most, but they wouldn't know how to find their way back without building some nuclear machine to get them there! LOL! And they'd take years to do that much because they'd be arguing over the philosophy of whether they SHOULD be going back there or not. Sorry, I don't mean to be picking on professors! I'm just saying that IQ and life experience do not always equate with what one does for work. Some of the most interesting people I've met don't have University degrees; they have life degrees!

The elitist attitude starts very young. I remember at one point that because of a business failure, my husband and I needed to find an alternative way to earn money to make ends meet. So, we drove taxicab: his parents doing such a lowly job mortified my second son. He thought it was beneath our station in life. We told him that it didn't matter what work you do: you go to work every day with a smile on your face, ready to do your best work, be the best you can be at that job, earn your pay, and then go home with pride. My husband and I were known as the best-dressed, best-mannered cab drivers that company had. Management didn't want us to leave when we found other employment, because everyone asked for our cab when they called. My husband continued looking for other employment because he’d been trained in sales and much preferred the hours and type of work in that industry. Cab-driving for was a good short-term solution for us. However, I’d be hard-pressed to recommend that job to anyone now: aside from the long, lonely hours of driving and hoping for that elusive good fare, cabbies are targets of all kinds of horrific violence. Conditions were somewhat safer for cabbies back in the mid-80's, and we did the best job we could while working for the cab company.

We took ALL calls, even the ones where you had to put wheelchairs into the trunk of the cab after literally lifting the person into the cab; then taking the chair out and lifting the person back into the chair at their destination. Those calls always took extra time and did not mean extra tips because they were for people who didn't have extra money. But we took those calls even though other cabbies would flag them off. We believed you take everything: good, difficult and otherwise. We were the best we could be every day. That was the lesson we taught our sons with that job. It was hard work as the cab was never off the road: it was hard on our marriage, and hard on the children because we never had family time anymore. They only had one parent at a time, but at least our bills were being paid and we weren't on welfare. We were able-bodied people doing honest work to provide for our family.

Interestingly enough, afterwards two of my sons worked full-time for a few years in the food service industry as busboys, dishwashers, waiters and further up that food chain so to speak. In fact, my second son worked his way up to the position of General Manager at a very early age, starting on the lowest rung of the totem pole, working part-time before he was 16 years old. Now, tell me, did he learn something or not from his parents working as cab drivers? I think so: no job is beneath anyone if it is approached with the right attitude. Those who work in the food service industry work long, hard hours, with little free time for family.

So, where does employment elitism stem from? Watch how waiters are portrayed in movies or on TV. Look how different careers are portrayed in the general media. Certain jobs are made to appear glamorous or adventurous, upper crust and all. Give me a break. We are all worker drones making money to pay the bills we incur to live. Don't fool me that because you work in some big company with a title and huge office that you're better than I am. I have confidence in who I am, regardless of what work I do for pay.

I hear of some women, every bit as bright as anyone, being made to feel they‘ve received some special boon from the men they are dating. Trust me, those men are trying to impress themselves that they are doing her a favour by taking her out. It's almost as though they're throwbacks to the days where men with big bucks got pretty women because they could afford to marry them and keep them happy.

Too funny! But, also, too sad. I was hoping men were no longer measuring themselves according to those old yardsticks in the dating game: that whoever has the most money and power deserves to win some special award. I guess that cultural idea IS still prevalent with both sexes at all ages, but WELL, I'd hoped for something so much different in the next generation . . .

Tubs of Scented Flowers

He’d visit her every spring. Even if at no other time of the year because the visit hurt him so much, he saw her then to ensure she had her tubs of living flowers. He ensured there were different scents and many colours. He didn’t know how much she could see anymore. He knew she could still smell, though. He knew her caregivers, the “Angels”, would describe the beautiful flowers he had painstakingly arranged. She would sit outside on her balcony in her special wheelchair with her tubs of flowers in the summer afternoons, enjoying the smells and warmth with a big smile on her face. It wasn’t just the warmth of the sun she felt.

Her eyes were often closed, but he knew she was still listening when he talked. Sometimes when he talked, she’d almost laugh. He thought there was at least the start of a smile. She couldn’t talk anymore, but he knew she understood. He could tell by the way she’d perk up at his jokes. Sometimes she’d be upset when he would start to leave: a single tear would slide down her cheek. He’d try to cheer her up. He’d tell her not to play too many tennis games, or not to wear out the other residents with late night bridge games.

They used to play bridge in a large group in their younger years. At the end of the evening, the bridge games would turn into poker. Most of the group were gone now. Those left were too few or too sick to play even one decent hand of bridge. Sad, but that’s the way life is. At least these two could still be together sometimes. There were many years of love, laughter, sorrow and joy between them.

Life. Family activities. Sameness, but differences. Closeness of a different kind because they were not married to each other. Their relationship was familial. It was a friendship, but it was much, much more. She had married his older brother during World War II. But the love amongst all of them had been growing since high school. It was as though they had known each other forever. She had known his wife since high school. While the men were away in service, the women volunteered together. They were in the Winnipeg Great West Life Troupe who entertained the military troops in Southern Manitoba.

All of them grew as friends during their marriages, through child rearing and vacations, joint family dinners and holiday gatherings. The younger brother moved to the same city to be closer geographically to his dear older brother. The two men and their wives shared dreams as a young generation. They had seen new inventions; revelled in their own power to make changes in the world; and raised their children to love God, family and country. They survived innovations that were not as wonderful as they originally seemed. Hell, they had even laughed at their own folly. They were, however, astounded and amazed at the many new ideasand technologies. They couldn't always figure out how to use the new technologies, though. Somehow, somewhere, suddenly, they felt they had outlived their usefulness.

Finally, they sat on the sidelines to rest as life swept swiftly by them like a flooding river. They retired to their own homes. He didn’t go quietly. He kept railing at the injustices in the world, kept reading the newspapers, kept telling his children and grandchildren they had to make a difference in the world at large. He continued making a difference in his own small corner of the world. He took physical care of his brother, her husband, when he became ill. When his brother died, he shared his brother’s widow’s sorrow.

He’d visit his brother every year on Remembrance Day to clean up
the gravesite and place a poppy, but only his eldest daughter knew that. She only knew because she followed him one time because she worried about him. She never told him she knew where he went: it was his own secret that they never discussed. He’d disappear for about an hour on the morning of November 11th, then come home to sit quietly for some alone time, remembering.

When his wife became terribly sick, his sister-in-law was already on her own downward decline, so he cared for his wife alone. When his wife died, he was heartbroken. It was so difficult to carry on. His daughters, son, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, friends, all tried to help. They were terrific, in fact. But life was just not the same. His heart missed the long-time love of his life. No one could remove that pain. No one filled that void. He went through the day-to-day motions of life in a fog. His wife died at Christmas. The winter was cold and lonely: it reflected his horrible grief.

Spring came. As usual, he painstakingly arranged the flowers for his sister-in-law. He visited her with the tubs of scented flowers. Somehow, by cheering her up, he cheered up. So, his annual ritual continued for a few years. They both received joy from this one perfect act of love. It was tougher each year, but he received help from his loved ones in preparing the tubs for his special project.

Then he, too, became very sick, needing help for his basic living. He could no longer prepare the tubs of flowers. He couldn’t visit her. He didn’t even remember her because of his illness. He couldn’t function alone, so was admitted to a nursing home.

She passed away the year after he became so ill. She only had one spring without his flowers. Did she miss them?

He continued gardening at the nursing home: he won an award for the biggest zucchini and had a ball showing it off. He passed in the fall after his sister-in-law. There were tears on earth and joy in heaven as they all came together again. The families left on earth continue placing flowers on her grave and at his resting place too.

Time: The Measure of One's Life

Time, that most precious commodity that cannot be regained once spent. We have so many expressions regarding time, and think somehow we control it. Ah, but time inexorably moves on, whether we mark it or not.
Let's save time. Now, how do we do that? We drive faster, do our work faster, and push ourselves harder. Do we REALLY SAVE time. Nay nay I say: we're not making time, either. Hmmm -- so what is the purpose of rushing anything in life? Why are we always running to the "next important thing" instead of enjoying THIS moment, THIS TIME?

Isn't that a novel concept? Let's enjoy being in the moment! Forget about yesterday, don't worry about tomorrow. Take the idea of time to the smallest degree, so put it into seconds or even nano-seconds. Forget about one second ago; don't worry about one second from now. Does that seem at all possible? To squeeze every single reaction, feeling, sensation and desire into and out of every single second in life?

I am fearful that that would only make life boring because we'd be so wrapped up in the seconds, we'd forget about the primaries, the firsts in our lives. Ah, there I go with the word play again. I love playing with words, their meanings, their sounds, and the concepts behind them. We need to focus on the larger points in time in order to better enjoy the seconds, don't you agree? How can I enjoy THIS second if I have no idea where it is leading me? If I have no plan, or organization, no way of marking what I am doing, what is the point of it? Where do I go each next second that follows the first one?

No, I'm afraid that I need to consider a longer picture of time. Perhaps I can take the proverbial ten-year slice out of my life. Now I can look back and decide that those ten years stretch a long way, with so many lessons learned, full of naiveté, believing in family love, and trying so hard to keep my family together. What good did that do? Dad died, as is the way with us humans when we wear out. Then my sister left because she couldn‘t handle some things that were happening in our lives. That's all I can say about my loss of her; other than it was awful, and I'm glad she's still alive.

I almost reached the end of my time after Dad died because we discovered I had ovarian cancer. Oooh, NOT a good time for me. I had barely scattered Dad's ashes when I went back for a follow up appointment to discuss my "kidney stone" and what we were going to do about it. Well, time to tell me I didn't have a kidney stone that needed anything done about it. I had a massive tumour growing inside of me. Cool -- about time I knew what that big gut was all about . . . I HAD been losing weight, so wonder why I didn't look too well, or even feel well.

I thought, at the time, that it was the usual stress of an dying parent who then met his ultimate fate. Nope, not this time!

An Early Morning Surprise

At unexpected times, I like turning up at the nursing home where Dad is a resident. It’s nice to see how he’s being treated when no one knows that someone is coming. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I want to know that Dad is being treated as well when we’re not there as he is when we are there. Newspapers have so many horror stories about the elderly being mistreated that I don’t want to take chances with our father’s treatment at the hands of others when he can no longer tell me about possible abuses. So, no one ever knows when I’ll turn up. They do know, however, that I can turn up at the oddest of hours. I’ve even been known to arrive in the middle of the night to check on how Dad is doing. It doesn’t hurt to keep the staff on their toes. My sister and I play a game of “good cop/bad cop”. I think you know where I fit into the game. It’s not a role I like, but I handle it for my father’s sake.

I visited Dad this morning at 7:30 a.m. When I peeked into his room, he was lying there with his eyes open, just staring into the darkened room as though he was thinking about something important. I’m not sure what was on his mind, but I didn’t startle him. I said hello and he very pleasantly responded. Dad was wide-awake, without any trace of drug fuzziness to his demeanour at all. It has been a long time since I’ve seen Dad this alert and responsive, I thought. Perhaps I should visit him in the early mornings more often. Everyone in the home tells me Dad sleeps in until fairly late in the mornings. I wonder if they actually look in on him in his room. Perhaps because he’s so very quiet they don’t realise he’s awake.

We talked for a few minutes, and then I opened up the drapes in his room to let in the beautiful morning sunshine. I told him the day and date as well as let him know that it was a lovely summer day for Sneak-a-Peek at the Stampede. We both said “Yahoo” to celebrate the Stampede and laughed. We sang a couple of songs: “I Say Little Dickie Bird” being one of the songs his Dad used to sing to him when my Dad was young and “Good Morning to You” being one of the songs my Dad used to sing to me when I was young. We laughed a lot. We then moved into “Daisy, Daisy” and a few others, but I don’t remember them all. For some reason, we wound up repeating a few tongue twisters, too. All rather odd, because those are not easy things for anyone to say, yet Dad was speaking them clearly. I wondered if he was practicing his speaking for some reason. I wondered if he did this type of mental exercise every morning in some sort of personal effort to retain information or retrain his brain to think. Even though he’s never told me he knows what’s wrong with him, and I’ve avoided telling him straight out that he has Alzheimer’s Disease, I know Dad knows what’s wrong. He just doesn’t want it named. He doesn’t want the label. He’s so very far advanced in the disease that it amazes me he even tries to fight it still. I thought he’d given up a long time ago, so the thought he was going through these mental exercises fascinated me.

I brought Dad some apple juice to freshen up his mouth. He had a problem at first with swallowing. He held the juice in his mouth and wouldn’t let it go down his throat. I had to cue him by placing my hand on his throat and telling him to take a big gulp. Finally the juice went down. After the first swallow, the rest of the juice went down well. He talked with me about a lot of things. I’m not totally sure I understood everything he was saying, but it was nice to hear Dad trying to communicate again. Most times when I see him now, he’s quiet. Probably because he knows he doesn’t make much sense to other people anymore. He used to become terribly frustrated and upset. Then he sort of gave up -- he’d throw his hands up in the air as if to say, what’s the point? Once upon a time, I could find some way of figuring out what Dad was trying to say, but I’ve had a tough time following him at all if he’s tried to speak in the last while. We discussed what he used to sell for the company he sold for for 35 years. I told him there is a new type of laundry detergent out now called “Cold Water Tide”. He just laughed and shook his head. I could almost hear his thoughts: “another marketing gimmick,” I said. He looked at me with laughter in his eyes. Yes, I’d read his mind right on! We were both pleased!

I then asked him if he wanted coffee, but he told me they made awful coffee at that place. He probably only used the word “awful”, but I knew what he meant. I told him I’d phone my husband to see if I could find out how to make the coffee taste a bit better. Dad indicated that would be a good idea by nodding his head. My husband told me to put at least two packets of sugar and two creamers into the coffee they make at the home so that Dad could enjoy it. I also added a bit of 2% milk so that the coffee wasn’t too hot in the temperature department. Dad sipped it gingerly at first, and then relished the first half-cup. After that, he didn’t really want anymore, so I didn’t press the issue. The nurse brought in his medications. She’d crushed and mixed them in peanut butter which I thought would be awful, but Dad took them without complaint. I gave him more juice, partly to rinse out his mouth, partly to help the medicines go down better, and partly to keep Dad hydrated. Hydration is a big problem for Dad. It’s hard to keep enough fluids in someone who’s asleep half the day, who has his mouth open a lot, who drools a lot, and who has trouble swallowing!

After the nurse left, Dad seemed to have a sense of urgency about him. He put his hands on either side of my face and pulled me closer to his face. I had been sitting on the side of his bed as he’d patted it to have me sit nearer to him when I first arrived. He stared at me so intently that I finally asked him, in a joking manner, if he was trying to memorize my face. What a surprise his answer was when he said yes, he didn’t want to forget me. That shook me. Actually, it made me cry. I put my face down into Dad’s chest and cried very hard. Dad stroked my hair and gentled me as though I were a little girl again. What a lovely gift of time and love we shared. It wasn’t much time, but enough for us both to know how deep is the love we still share. Dad may not be who he once was, but I know that somewhere deep inside the confused person who is in his bed right now, the father I’ve always known is in there. The Alzheimer’s disease stops him from coming out as much as he wants to, but Dad pushed his way through today. It must have taken a massive effort for him to show his love for me the way he did. What a wonderful miracle we both experienced. He had a big smile on his face for a few minutes.

When the moment was over, it was truly gone, in some way as though it hadn’t happened. The nursing home day staff arrived to get Dad up and dressed for the day. I had to leave to start my busy day of errands. As quickly as Dad had shown his love, he reverted to the Alzheimer’s patient, but we all noticed he wasn’t so grumpy with the ladies this morning as he usually is when they’re dressing him. So maybe my early morning visit was good for everyone.

Teaching Language Skills

One of the major activities I provide my English as a Second Language adult students is the opportunity to work with their new language tools in their own offices or homes as homework.

Even the brand-new-to-English students can write a basic two word sentence: "I run." I ask my students to use the sentence structure that we have in our curriculum books, in which there are several examples. If all else fails, I've had a few students take nearly all the words from the written example and re-write it with a different verb or different person (1st, 2nd, 3rd, singular or plural) so that not only are they working with the sentence structures, but with grammar concepts too. That's what I do with the Beginners!

I expect Intermediate students to come up with their own sentences, and then dissect them in class with me -- what is right or why not. The first two levels of Advanced students actually have to write paragraphs for homework. But they write about tangible articles, not abstract concepts. The last Advanced level writes about abstract concepts.

We prepare a LOT of examples verbally before we even get into our books. I use whiteboards, drawings, and pantomime, whatever to get meanings across. In fact, there is often so much laughter coming from our classrooms that other people in the offices will poke their heads in to find out what is happening. I may start bringing a few items with me, if they're light enough; perhaps I can bring a piece of twine, or a thumbtack. My dang books weigh over 20 lbs. for my daily commute as it is, so I don't really like the concept of more weight!

So, if I, as an ESL teacher, can come up with a specific plan to teach all four aspects of language learning to beginners through to advanced adult students, why can't school boards write curricula which will include the same for our children? The concepts are: listening, speaking, reading and writing. Teaching all four at once may seem complicated, but they are simple because they work together and assist in the interweaving of the language skills.

We have to get in there, play with words, get a little nitty gritty dirty, have fun, and WORK with language: any teacher will tell you that students learn better when different teaching modalities are used.

C'mon, politicians: municipal, state, province, and federal: let's get our acts together so that our young people can learn how to communicate properly.

As I used to state to my students back at the U of C:

"It is counter-productive to have a fabulous idea if you cannot TALK about it, WRITE about it and DEFEND it. Grants, money and research possibilities only open up for those people who communicate their ideas clearly."

We humans need to communicate with each other, and we use language to do so. Yes, if languages are not the same amongst those talking, other means can be found to get ideas across to each other. However, no matter the language we teach, we need a proper plan to be successful. The ability to communicate well with others contributes to information exchange and the understanding between cultures.

Whatever will happen to our young people if they don't learn basic communication skills?

Whatever will happen to our countries if people no longer know how to clearly communicate ideas both in written and verbal form?

Aaaaagh!