Silent Spring

A friend of mine told me there are countless blogs which tell people's stories. Dial down the personal and up the criticism, he said. Excellent advice. But if you will indulge me today, I need space for my frustration.

One of the things depression takes away from you is your self-confidence. And without faith in your abilities, your efforts begin to seem worthless. I've been mired in the job hunt for several months now. Sending resumes into the ether can only go so far, and when interviews fail to translate into a position, I tend to be self-destructive and upset. I am a financial burden to my parents, whether or not I am ill. But I am ill. The cost of depression in emotional terms is incalculable. Monetized, however, the price comes to about $300 a month.

I realize the economy is in ruins and New York City is probably one of the harder places to get a job. My dad, after eight months of daily hunting, just became employed again. In a recent conversation he told me how strange it was, to be jobless for so long, and now being in the position to hire people. Only my mother knows how she made do on a teacher's pitiful salary for nearly a year. I ached, when I was last home, to see my parents shopping at Wal-Mart, planning to cut their wan budget further and calling the cable company to stop service. They don't deserve it. No one does, really.

But as "The Wire" so eloquently put it in its pilot, "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it." So it doesn't matter, really, that there's a girl in group therapy whose parents can afford her rent in a very nice part of the city. She goes to neither class nor therapy, but goes to clubs with friends. And she is indifferent to the group leader's questions about what she does with her parents' money. She was sitting next to me. Tall, skinny. Dressed beautifully, with a bag I'd seen in the windows of Madison Avenue. I nearly sliced my tongue in half to keep my mouth shut. Yes, she has problems. Yes, she too is ill. But she has resources I can only dream of.

At my therapist's office shortly afterward, I wept bitterly. Anger rose up in me like a cyclone, tearing through any empathy I may've had for my fellow patient. Why was it, I asked Dr. M, that everyone I know is employed one way or another, and after over 60 applications I am nowhere? Why do others have more and don't see it as a gift? I probably said a whole lot of other things I don't remember, but I did say this before I left: "I forget, though, that there are no answers in therapy. This is just chatter. And when I leave nothing will have changed. The F train will be late, the line at Trader Joe's too long to enter, and my checking account will still read 0.00." Dr. M agreed.

Reader, I do not pity myself. I'm not the first nor the last to go through this. I'm just angry, is all. I was watching the 'Mad Men' season 2 episode "Three Sundays" today, and was struck by Peggy's sister's confession to Father Gil (a superb Colin Hanks). She is angry with the seeming acceptance of her sibling's illegitimate child, the help everyone offers her. During her act of contrition, she says she hates her sins.

Cognitive behavioral therapy, DBT's more severe cousin, aims to eliminate your negative thoughts or patterns. I never got the impression I was particularly good at it. My first therapist practiced CBT and was encouraging, but I just couldn't let go. I felt angry and envious and sad. Why wasn't that alright? But today, I find myself questioning these "sins." Perhaps the answer is in empowering oneself, and refrain from internalizing what others say or practice. I'll put it on the schedule, shall I, for the next time I'm in group. And I make no promises.