From Global Mom: A Memoir
(Cont’d from previous post, “Stress, Depression, and Teeny Blue Pills”)
Mr. Psy had wavy salt and pepper hair and a softly lit office at the Hôpital Americain in Neuilly. Feeling oddly kept-womanish, I almost cancelled the appointment. Then, when I forced myself to drive there, I nearly chose to wait out the whole extremely pricey nonrefundable hour in the parking lot. I was conflicted, questioning what my problem was, wondering if I was not really depressed but simply self-pitying. Pitiful. An expatriate Stepford wife and maudlin. Triple scoop of loathsome.
“But this is easy,” Mr. Psy said, removing his glasses and folding his manicured hands while leaning forward on his frosted glass desk top. “You’re an artiste. You have the tempérament d’une artiste. You feel things profondément. This is a qualité. This tristesse is simply the price you pay pour l’art.”
My problem now resolved to his liking, he wanted to discuss music and painting and favorite sopranos and Glenn Gould’s Bach recordings.
I thanked my artsy Psy, left with a prescription for little blue pills, and never saw him again.
What I had not succeeded in helping him understand was what I scarcely understood myself. It was gnawing my soul out, though, that sharp-toothed conviction that I was utterly and fully a failure, I was a dithering fool, my life a waste. Clearly I was profoundly spent, my body was screaming that much, but my mind kept responding, Spent? But spent for what? I’d been working hard for so many years, it seemed, but couldn’t show anything substantial for it. Every time I built something — established myself and our family in Norway, penetrated Versailles with my children in local activities, or literally built up or renovated a home and buttressed and held up my children — in the very instant I’d gotten to that spot, this international job track leveled what I’d built. Any time I felt I got an inch of grip, I’d be back at zero, starting all over again, knowing that whatever grip I got this time around would be ripped out and disposed of again.
Disposable. Like the rotted mattresses and moldy clothing which slumped against my hallway walls, sneering at me. Useless. A wasted life. This was the voice of the mattresses and the clothing. It spoke loudly and incessantly in my head. I could hear little else.
The seventh day after beginning the blue pills — “Take one a day, Madame,” Mr. Psy had said, “until you feel things start to uncoil,” — I awoke feeling like a cello whose strings had been muted. Or a big bell with a four-inch-thick felt lining. Or like a mother moved to the heart of Paris, and someone had turned the city to one of those sidewalk chalk drawings done by Dick Van Dyke’s character Bert in “Mary Poppins”, the drawing that washes to a swamp in the rain. Indistinct and dissolved. A mirage.
I tossed the remaining fifty-three pills in my bathroom wastebasket.
(To be continued. . .)