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norm I offer my harshest assessment and criticism:  Japan's attitudes towards mental health care as a whole are wrong, outdated, not helpful, and harmful.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.

When Someone Dies

David Remnick of The New Yorker says of the sudden death of James Gandolfini:  "In the dozens of hours he had on the screen, he made Tony Soprano--lovable, repulsive, cunning, ignorant, brutal--more ruthlessly alive than any character we've ever encountered in television."  Except for the major crush I developed on the character he's most famous for, I don't know James Gandolfini.  With that said, I have a feeling he'd like to be remembered for creating a character that was known as "ruthlessly alive."

This post is less about James Gandolfini than it is about death.  Unexpected and sudden death.  Just so we're clear, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about the day I will die.  Nor do I contemplate how, when, if I'll die alone or with someone else, whether it will be quiet or tragic.  I have at one point or another wondered all this, but in the space I allot to what goes on in my mind, my personal death does not take up much space.

Except that it does.  Sometimes.  I contemplate this when people around me die.  My uncle's death ten years ago rocked our family in ways we've still not recovered from.  My brother's death when I was very young has left a hole in my immediate family that cannot be plugged.  Even with the deaths of those I don't know, the finality of their newly created absence makes me wonder what people will say about me when I've moved on--because at one time or another we think about the day we leave earth.  We talk about those who have left us.  We talk about them as we mourn, reliving the marks they've left on those left behind.

When the choice to end our lives is of our own making, remembrance is messy.  Our sadness is mixed with anger, confusion, and often guilt.  Suicide in Japan is a social phenomenon where statistics show approximately 30,000 people terminate their lives and have been for the past fifteen years.  Except for a report stating the numbers dipped below 30,000 for the first time last year, these numbers remain steady.  What's going on in Japan?

It gets worse.  Research shows those who are successful in ending their lives (if suicide can actually be called a "success") are 10% of those who try.  Do the math.  This means there are 300,000 people in Japan who choose this way to die.  Should we be glad only 10% are "successful"?  What, if anything is done for the 270,000 who failed?

I bring this topic up not to suggest I have answers or that there exist simple solutions.  "It's complicated" are two words often used to describe that which we cannot control.  Without helpful input to offer I'm in no position to say, "That's not good enough," but I will.  

Perhaps one way to address the problem of suicide in Japan is to focus on two aspects of Japanese culture often used to modify behavior:  shame, and meiwaku.  A powerful force of social order, shame is an often-used tool to instill right from wrong.  Do not bring shame upon your family, school, organization, or company.  What if we said about those who were close to the one who took their life, that they failed in some way?  Perhaps the stigma of failure maybe isn't enough. What if we add shame to the emotions felt to those left behind?  If we knew those left to pick up our body felt shame because of our decision, would that change anything?

The same concept applies to meiwaku.  The catch-all word for gross inconvenience we cause others, by taking our own life surely we cause meiwaku do we not?  In centuries past perhaps suicide was noble, the ultimate in taking responsibility.  What if we made sure children growing up thought of suicide as a cop out?  That there was nothing heroic about falling on one's own sword?

It's not that easy, I know.  Change is never simple.  So I'll end with this thought:  I wish the collective Japan could recognize how big of a deal it was for Tony Soprano to get counseling.  Fictional character aside, the decision to put front-and-center the life of a troubled and truly human mob boss who chose to get help, that this was a cultural phenomenon on American television warrants another look.

 

 

 

 

Suicide: What to do when the person sitting next to you on the train is (possibly) suicidal

I don't usually look at, much less read the screens of the smart phones of those sitting next to me.  Not on trains, buses, or while we're waiting for the light to change.  I don't know why I did today. 

At first, they didn't register.  The woman sitting next to me on the train today was flipping through the pages on her cell phone.  Her finger moving down the screen from top to bottom, she would stop every now and then reading the title of a link to an article.  Or so I assumed.

It was probably at one of these lingering moments as she decided whether to click the link that I noticed the words.  It's amazing what our eyes take in.  There they were:  suicide, and "I want to die."  Not only did my eyes register these words, I was also able to read the full titles of the links.  Each one started with "I want to die." 

Was she contemplating suicide?  Was she a student researching suicide?  How would I know?  What do I do?

She clicked on a link.  The article which I read along with her listed the causes of suicide (i.e. family problems, finances, job-related stress, relationship difficulties).  I see the word "depression."  Her finger keeps dragging the page down, faster and faster it seems and I wonder for a minute whether she's actually reading.

She clicks the back arrow next and we're taken to the previous screen.  I now notice each of the articles above the one she just read are in a lighter purple, the ones below in dark blue.  I know what this means.  All the articles in purple are ones she's read.  Noticing again each article beings with the words "I want to die" I now start to panic.

Maybe panic isn't the right word.  I no longer feel comfortable reading over her shoulder (surely she must have noticed by now) and sit up straight.  I look ahead and decide to dive. 

I take the ear bud out of my left ear and face her.  She looks right at me as if she knew this was coming.
"Are you alright?" I ask.  She nods quickly, smiling.
"Yes."
I'm not content with this answer.  What did I think she was going to say?  Did I expect her to confess she's contemplating suicide?  I could sit back and accept her denial (?) but this feels too simplistic.  Even though she couldn't possibly tell me in a crowded train why she's reading articles about suicide, I decide to ask again.
"The links" and I point to her phone, "you were searching here.  Are you really alright?"
She nods fast.
"Yes."

And, that's as far as I can take it.  I leave my ear bud out in case she wants to say something further.  (If I had plugged myself back into my iPhone I would have been signaling I was done talking.  I assume she figured this out.)  None of this feels good.  Did I overstep?  Should I have kept quiet?  What was I doing reading her phone anyway?  What if she was suicidal and this was her way of asking for help?  And, how pray tell, would I know this?  What was I doing?  

She got off at the next stop (wouldn't you?) and as I sat there in my seat I decided I had no idea whether I did the right thing.  What would you have done?

School Violence in Japan: More Questions Than Answers

Japanese news over he past month has been peppered with stories about the effects of school violence.  A high school student committed suicide after repeated beatings from his team manager, and the womens' judo coach for the national team resigned after the athletes filed a mass complaint accusing him of violence.  Unfortunately such stories are not new.  I've often reflected upon multiple and similar incidents from my elementary and middle school days at times like this.  In the end I'm left with more questions than answers.

It seems for those of my generation growing up, what is now being referred to as violence and beatings were more the norm in school.  Coaches would routinely slap disobedient baseball players, kick legs, or throw buckets of water on them.  I use baseball players only as an example.  Back in our day, it was more unusual for coaches to not "train" by means of a shove here, a smack there.

"It instilled in us a sense of competition," one friend tells me.  "It was embarrassing and it hurt.  I wasn't going to let my coach get the best of me so I tried harder."

I call Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan who has an answer for everything and ask to meet.
"Sure I was slapped.  Not punched, but slapped across the face.  I didn't think of it as a beating.  For me though, it wasn't the coach that did this but rather the older students.  It was just part of life for us in high school.  This is how sports clubs functioned.  We got stronger.  It pissed us off so we got back by practicing more than before.  We got better."

I ask, "Why do some students commit suicide then?  Don't the coaches know when to stop?  Why was it not 'violence' for you but it is for these kids?"
"Students these days are taught they have options.  'If you try one thing and it doesn't work, you can try something else.'  On the one hand, this is good.  On the other hand, and don't take this the wrong way," Alpha Male looks at me sideways, "It's more of a western way of thinking.  We weren't taught that growing up but kids these days are.  When we were in middle and high school we just took it because that's how things were.  Now, kids are taught more independence, freedom and that they can choose.  It's good, but the educational system has changed into something not quite Japanese."

I ponder this.  Multiple incidents from my childhood come to the surface, each competing for the "which is the worst" category.  One teacher, someone I liked, routinely called up one boy to the front of the class, pulled him up by his sideburns and continued to judo-trip him while he cried and screamed for help.  Half the class laughed, the rest of us sat stunned.  He didn't do anything wrong.  He wasn't a trouble-maker.  One day it just started.  How long did he go through this?  All I remember is the announcement the teacher made out of the blue one day that this boy was diagnosed with diabetes.  The "beatings" stopped that day, never to continue.  I'm still baffled by what this teacher did, and why.

Another teacher mercilessly picked on a girl who moved into the community and into our classroom.  She didn't bathe often.  The teacher, with every opportunity would let her and the rest of us know she smelled, making her cry.  Why do this?  Is this a hint?  It didn't work because it didn't change anything.  Except that one day she didn't come back to school.  We were told she moved away.

What was normal at one time in recent Japanese history is no longer.  Feedback is consistent:  Japanese education is to blame.  People my age and older are disgusted by Japan's youth.  "Spineless," and "Too opinionated" are two ways today's young are often described.  Should we be adding to this "Can't take a beating"?  I find myself confused.

"We needed to keep her alive."

Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources. 

In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato.  I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers.  I have an appointment with him next week.  More on this in a moment.

We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do.  It's lovely.  I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.

"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely.  He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved.  I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him.  He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.

Her friend was a student of hers.  "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata."  Now I'm confused.  Her friend was washed away?  As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived?  I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it.  Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people.  Hence my confusion.  She was "washed away" and then treated later?

"It was a miracle," my friend says. 
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake.  The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami.  The woman was at home with her three children.  After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape. 

"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says.  "Bad luck, you know?"  I nod.  "She had to turn the car around.  By that time, the water engulfed the car.  The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it.  My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet.  That's the last thing she remembers."

The woman survived.  All six of them were tossed out of the car.  She was found later, the only one breathing.  Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.

"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law.  Six people.  Everyone in her family.  She's the only one who survived."  I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?"  I'm not sure I would.
"I know.  I know.  Right?  We needed to keep her alive.  We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend.  Here again; women helping women.

"She's not doing well now.  It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve.  It's not good.  She's not well.  At all."

Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.

The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."

The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon.  The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach.  We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain. 

Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories.  And repeat them.