I Am Not Depressed

I will never say or write any given culture is superior to another.  Elements of a culture may be beautiful.  More beautiful than others.  Elements of a culture may be cruel.  How I define this beauty and cruelty is mine.  Yours may differ.  Your definition and mine probably won't always intersect in a peaceful and harmonious way.  Some days this is just fine.  Other days it's anything but.

Robin Williams is dead.  According to news sources, he took his own life.  According to the same and other news sources, he was suffering from depression.  We probably won't know the truth for awhile, if ever.

What do differing definitions of cultural beauty and cruelty have to do with Robin Williams?  In order to explain this, I must first commit possibly a great faux pas.  I will now renege.  I won't actually say Japanese culture is inferior to others, but in one particular cultural norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism:  Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.

I've now worked in the disaster region of Japan for over three years.  To say the tsunami of March 2011 messed people up is a stupid understatement.  I've lived and worked alongside people suffering from deep and profound pain.  Sadness is normal.  Grief is constant.  Getting help?  Seeing a therapist?  Openly discussing this pain and sadness and grief?  Not a chance.

Enter the Japanese spirit of gaman.  Children are told to "suck it up" and "be strong" and "behave" and "not complain".  Men drink away their frustration.  Women keep going.  These are perhaps gross generalizations, but that does not make them false.  In the Tohoku region where the disaster struck there is even a stronger, more stubborn sense of pride over the Japanese spirit of gaman.  Here, people really don't complain.  I am baffled, confused, bothered, and upset by this resolve.

On a good day gaman can mean strength.

"I will survive."
"I will persevere."
"I am strong."
"I am stoic."
"I am brave."

Yes.   All that.
Until none stay true.

To my friends who believe the spirit of gaman will carry them through forever, I offer you these words.

Isn't it possible that before you are Japanese and I, American, we are human?  As human beings, isn't it true that (unless there are underlying mental health issues already present) we like the same things?  Good food makes us happy.  Laughter is the best medicine.  We love sex.  Friendship, companionship, camaraderie all leave us feeling good.

We dislike the same things.  Betrayal hurts.  Death of a loved one causes pain.  Rotten food doesn't taste good.  Abandonment we fear.

If we are baseline the same, built on the same emotional foundation why then must we deny ourselves these natural feelings in the name of culture?  I get that quiet strength is noble and to be admired.  Not, however, at the expense of collective mourning that sweeps everyone into the vacuum of depression, collateral damage all around.

So, let me say this.  I am not depressed.

But, last week I had several moments that shook me up.  I was tired.  Incredibly tired.  Too tired.  Not-good tired.

Several times during the week I found myself wondering, "What would it be like to go to sleep and not ever wake up?  Wouldn't that feel good?"

Let me repeat:  I am not depressed.  I am not suicidal.  I am, however, deeply and monumentally tired.

Why am I writing this?  Because I don't believe suicide is the best solution for dealing with pain.  I don't know what happened with Robin Williams.  I remember crying he made me laugh so hard.  I will miss that.  I will miss what he offered in his comedy and acting.  But, if depression did indeed play a role in his choice to take his life (not confirmed as I write this) then I find myself angry as I am saddened.

Let's talk.
Let's talk about how we feel.
Let's talk about what troubles us.
Maybe, just maybe, gaman is not the right response to a massive disaster.  Maybe asking several hundred thousand children to "be strong because you're Japanese" is exactly the wrong way of going about mental health care.

Maybe Robin Williams didn't have to take his life.  Maybe we really need to change the way we deal with pain, grief, trauma, and sadness.  Maybe we put culture aside for a minute and focus on the fact before we belong to culture we are a species with just as many commonalities as differences.

And me?  I'm going on vacation.  I will do nothing productive other than rest.  For two weeks.  If after that I'm still tired, then I will look at resigning my job.  I don't ever again want to be attracted to the idea of not waking up in the morning.

On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter

I was cheated.  All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo.  Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set.  All my girl friends had them.  All of my girl friends had them.  Not me.  I am forever scared.  My parents did me a great disservice.  Send me a box of Band-Aids.

Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls?  Did they not love me?  Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan?  Why not?  Why not?  Pretty please.

My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer.  "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."

Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars.  They're just dolls.  Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls.  It wasn't about deserving these beauties.  It was simple math.  I get that now.  Many, many years later, I get that now.

I do not have a daughter.  I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him.  For many reasons we didn't.  I will take this regret to my grave.  Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son.  "Give me a grandbaby girl."  Specifically, a red head.  More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes.  I've seen the one I want.  She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston. 

"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day.  "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing.  "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl.  She seems to belong to someone already.  Careful what you say.  You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say.  "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly.  Whatever.  My son laughs, again.  I do, too.  Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement.  A girl can dream.  I'm hoping for a miracle.

Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls?  No.  I'm firmly in my parents camp.  I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls.  Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me?  No good reason, I suppose.  I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer.  I wanted these dolls.  It was as simple as that.

Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own.  This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing.  My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess.  I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs.  Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops.  I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for.  Oh well.  I tried.  I truly did.

While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many.  We have no signed papers but just an understanding.  I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently.  She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.

This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago.  She was 17 at the time.  A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.

She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail.  We talked about its content.  She explained.  I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project.  I wasn't in a good place.  I should have turned it down."

She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots.  I try to keep mine steady.  I tell her to call me any time she needs to.  I tell her I will always be there for her.  I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill".  I tell her I'm proud of her.  I tell her she's brave.  I ask if I can help.

As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls.  As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression.  Girls can survive being denied dolls.  I'm proof.  Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow.  I'll be fine living without.  If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter.  Light a candle.  Sing.  Dance.  Send good vibes.

My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs.  "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."

Tales from Rikuzentakata: "That's All I Did."

No spin.  No embellishing.  This is a story without preservatives.  Made with all natural ingredients, it comes straight from the front lines of disaster-stricken Rikuzentakata. 

Teiichi Sato is a man who looks like he chops down trees in his spare time.  Barrel-chested, salt-and-pepper hair flying in all directions, he's quick to tear up and quick to recover.  He's one of the victims-turned-survivors from the tsunami that wiped away the City of Rikuzentakata, his store and home included. 

Mr. Sato will be the first to admit his mind did not belong to him for a month after the tsunami took away everything he owned.  "I wasn't myself.  I didn't know what to do.  My mind?  It was white.  Like that screen on television, black and white static.  I had nothing."  Today, he is the proud owner of his seed store selling literally seeds and seedlings.  How anyone can stay in business selling only seeds, competing with the giant box-stores selling the same seeds for less--this is a mystery to me.  I don't ask questions.  His income, he tells me is "Less than what most people make around here" but this doesn't seem to bother him.  Personifying stubbornness, a fierce will to live, and commitment to survival, the hostility he showed to his customers two summers ago when he was working through this PTSD is all but a memory.

"I wanted to get this story out from inside me.  That I rebuilt this store, if you can call it that....that I rebuilt it from scraps of debris that I found all over town.  That I rebuilt my store to show that even someone normal like me can start over.  That even someone like me who lost everything can still live.  I wanted to get this story out but it was too painful to write it in Japanese."
I nod as I listen.
"So I wrote it in English.  And then Chinese."  Here he drops the bomb.  "But I don't speak, read, or write English or Chinese."  He laughs.  "So, I looked up words in the dictionary one after the other, and then started putting together not knowing at all whether my English was correct.  Then I heard of an English teacher who was holding classes here in town once a month and I asked for help.  He and I worked through my manuscript, polishing it so it was presentable.  And then I published it.  It's not high prose, but it's readable."  He says this as if it's no big deal at all to write a book in two languages he doesn't understand.  He did the same thing with the Chinese document.  "Dictionaries are really helpful," he says, nonchalantly.  "Get a native speaker to check your work, and" he claps his hands together, "just like that, you've gotten out what was pent up inside.  That's really all I did."

That is most definitely not all he did.  It never occurred to me here is where I would found the one person I know in my life who wrote a book about a terrible and painful experience in two languages he neither comprehended nor ever used.  The result is a short book revealing grief and hope in ways only he can retell and capture.  I won't spoil it for you.  Don't buy it if you're not interested.  If you are, however, here is a true, first-hand account of a victim who turned himself into a survivor out of sheer will.  Read and weep as many have. 

Please contact me at amya@city.rikuzentakata.iwate.jp if you are interested in purchasing a copy.  Each book costs 1500 yen.  You will need to pay via bank transfer.  I will provide you with details.
It's worth it.  Take my word for it.