It's a NEW Day!!

July 16, 2004 03:17 PM

Jung had a “nervous breakdown” after he ended his discipleship to Freud. (As I think I’ve mentioned before, nervous breakdown is not currently recognized as a medical term. Nervous breakdown is how drama queens like myself describe garden variety depression and agoraphobia.)

I’ve seen Jung’s condition described as a “creative breakdown.” As soon as it he became functional again, he charged head-first into becoming the Next Big Thing in Western Clinical Psychology.

I’ve been feeling remarkably creative lately, and in my less jaded moments I wonder if I’ve had a “creative breakdown” like Jung’s, of which I am now reaping the benefits.

Of course, such celebrity comparisons are dangerous. For every Jung who made it through the madness, there’s a Nietzche who didn’t. And then there’s Mary Kay Bergman. In my lowest moments in March, I thought of her. One of the most talented voice-over artists of a generation, she performed all the female voices in the South Park series up until around the time of “Bigger, Longer and Uncut.” Her four bravissima vocal performances in the song “Blame Canada” were certainly what launched that song into an Oscar nomination. She was famous and beloved by South Park fans everywhere. She and Trey and Matt were heading for unimagined heights together. And then she shot herself. Because she couldn’t handle the psychological pain she was in.

I can’t say that I ever actually moved into the territory of “suicidal thought.” But I guess I peeked over the border a little bit in order to see what color the grass was on that side of the fence. Laying in my bed (after going to the emergency room and finding out that what was wrong with me couldn’t be helped by a physician) I thought, “I never understood how someone could do that. But now I guess I do. If I knew I was going to be in this much pain for the rest of my life . . . I guess the prospect of living would not seem terribly attractive.”

A fleeting thought . . . like the comparison of my breakdown to Jung’s . . . like my Catholic realization that the greatest suffering of my life has fallen at the time of my thirty-third birthday - thirty-three being the age that Jesus traditionally was when he was crucified.

(I read something on the internet about a priest who had suffered both major clinical depression, and painful third degree burns to his genitals. When asked which experience he would choose to repeat - if he were somehow forced to - he said he would opt to be burned again. He said that following the burning, while he was in torturous pain, he felt he had an inner strength that carried him through recovery. During the depression, though, he had nothing. He felt bereft of resources, as if he had completely “lost his faith.” And that internal pain was far more crushing.)

I’ve had a strong desire to write - one of the reasons I’ve returned here. But my fiction projects aren’t taking off. I’ll feel manically inspired for a few chapters, and then I’ll turn all dark German existentialist and say, “Fuck eet. Vhat does eet all matter? We’re all goink to die anyvay! Thees piece of crap fiction ees an insignificant fly-turd on the diseased carcass of humanity!”

So I’ve resorted to “noodling,” like a pianist randomly plunking out impromptu snatches of tune on a keyboard. Writing whatever I feel like writing, instead of what my plot outline dictates.

What I’m discovering is that right now in my life, I only have the patience to write critical, incendiary commentary. I seem to be all about the manifesto. Only something that charged can make me feel like the time spent at the keyboard is worthwhile.

Now, the more rational parts of me incessantly register their opinion that the idea of me writing any sort of significant “manifesto” is as ludicrous as the comparison of my nervous breakdown to Jung’s. And yet . . . those thoughts are there. I can’t discount them just because they sound stupid.

So, on with the manifesto. I’ve been immersing myself in research materials, and I feel a passion that I imagine Walt Whitman must have felt while writing his most dynamic poetry . . . as if what I’m writing is an infected tooth that must be extracted. No matter the pain of getting it out . . . the pain of keeping it in is far more dangerous.

TRACKBACK (0)


	July 16, 2004 03:17 PM Jung had a “nervous breakdown” after he ended his discipleship to Freud. (As I think I’ve mentioned before, nervous breakdown is not currently recognized as a medical term. Nervous breakdown is how drama queens like myself describe garden variety depression and agoraphobia.) I’ve seen Jung’s condition described as a “creative breakdown.” As soon as it he became functional again, he charged head-first into becoming the Next Big Thing in Western Clinical Psychology. I’ve been feeling remarkably creative lately, and in my less jaded moments I wonder if I’ve had a “creative breakdown” like Jung’s, of which I am now reaping the benefits. Of course, such celebrity comparisons are dangerous. For every Jung who made it through the madness, there’s a Nietzche who didn’t. And then there’s Mary Kay Bergman. In my lowest moments in March, I thought of her. One of the most talented voice-over artists of a generation, she performed all the female voices in the South Park series up until around the time of “Bigger, Longer and Uncut.” Her four bravissima vocal performances in the song “Blame Canada” were certainly what launched that song into an Oscar nomination. She was famous and beloved by South Park fans everywhere. She and Trey and Matt were heading for unimagined heights together. And then she shot herself. Because she couldn’t handle the psychological pain she was in. I can’t say that I ever actually moved into the territory of “suicidal thought.” But I guess I peeked over the border a little bit in order to see what color the grass was on that side of the fence. Laying in my bed (after going to the emergency room and finding out that what was wrong with me couldn’t be helped by a physician) I thought, “I never understood how someone could do that. But now I guess I do. If I knew I was going to be in this much pain for the rest of my life . . . I guess the prospect of living would not seem terribly attractive.” A fleeting thought . . . like the comparison of my breakdown to Jung’s . . . like my Catholic realization that the greatest suffering of my life has fallen at the time of my thirty-third birthday - thirty-three being the age that Jesus traditionally was when he was crucified. (I read something on the internet about a priest who had suffered both major clinical depression, and painful third degree burns to his genitals. When asked which experience he would choose to repeat - if he were somehow forced to - he said he would opt to be burned again. He said that following the burning, while he was in torturous pain, he felt he had an inner strength that carried him through recovery. During the depression, though, he had nothing. He felt bereft of resources, as if he had completely “lost his faith.” And that internal pain was far more crushing.) I’ve had a strong desire to write - one of the reasons I’ve returned here. But my fiction projects aren’t taking off. I’ll feel manically inspired for a few chapters, and then I’ll turn all dark German existentialist and say, “Fuck eet. Vhat does eet all matter? We’re all goink to die anyvay! Thees piece of crap fiction ees an insignificant fly-turd on the diseased carcass of humanity!” So I’ve resorted to “noodling,” like a pianist randomly plunking out impromptu snatches of tune on a keyboard. Writing whatever I feel like writing, instead of what my plot outline dictates. What I’m discovering is that right now in my life, I only have the patience to write critical, incendiary commentary. I seem to be all about the manifesto. Only something that charged can make me feel like the time spent at the keyboard is worthwhile. Now, the more rational parts of me incessantly register their opinion that the idea of me writing any sort of significant “manifesto” is as ludicrous as the comparison of my nervous breakdown to Jung’s. And yet . . . those thoughts are there. I can’t discount them just because they sound stupid. So, on with the manifesto. I’ve been immersing myself in research materials, and I feel a passion that I imagine Walt Whitman must have felt while writing his most dynamic poetry . . . as if what I’m writing is an infected tooth that must be extracted. No matter the pain of getting it out . . . the pain of keeping it in is far more dangerous. TRACKBACK (0)		Your Words Celeste July 17, 2004 10:35 PM I think I'm glad you're back.