"Mental Storm"
I read an excellent book. Mr. William Styron tells his memories of the past when he was in the grip of depression in this book. A terrible disease that many of us may not have a proper understanding of, and if we see those around us who have fallen victim to it, with just four or five clichéd sentences, we make their situation worse. It is necessary for us to read this to understand the horror of depression. According to Mr. Styron, "To sit on the shore and tell someone who is in a flood to cheer up is little short of an insult." The author's stories of the past when he was in the grip of depression were so powerful and influential that I sometimes had difficulty getting through this small book. He did an excellent job in expressing the situations and inner feelings, and this is the greatest strength of the book. In fact, by reading this book and the author's narrative, we understand what depression is. At the end, as a survivor of this disease, he also says some interesting things that are not very encouraging news. One interesting thing that I haven't forgotten to mention is that the author calls this disease by a different name in one place! And he believes that melancholia, depression, and other names that have been given to this disease throughout history do not do justice to the subject, and the name he suggests is "Mental Storm".
If someone among your surroundings or your loved ones is in the grip of depression, reading this book can help you as a companion to understand it.

What can be described about this book is truth. It is a true book that stands on the subject without any unnecessary embellishment or literary pretense.
Talking about personal experiences is not that easy, especially the painful ones. It requires the author to have a great deal of detachment from the momentary blurred vision and to reflect on oneself and the situation as a whole.
The author talks about the period when he fell into depression and what happened to him both internally and externally.
The truth is that the author was able to do this in a true way here. As I said at the beginning, truth is the most important thing here.
It is a beautiful book.

This book offers a raw and honest account of the author's experiences. It delves deep into the author's personal journey through a difficult time, revealing the inner turmoil and external events that shaped it. The lack of artificiality and the straightforward approach make it a refreshing read. The author's ability to confront and share the truth, even when it is painful, is truly commendable. It is not just a story but a powerful exploration of the human condition. Overall, it is a remarkable and engaging book that will leave a lasting impression on the reader.

\\"In the absence of hope, we must struggle until we survive, even if it means breaking our hearts.\\"

In this sincere and courageous narrative, the author describes his sudden downfall in the pit of despair and the impact it had on his general life as a writer and specifically as a husband and life partner.

The author speaks about the disease that affects millions and yet there are still those who do not understand it to this day, whether its causes, the way to deal with those affected by it, or even understanding the symptoms they experience and the impact of medications on them and the pain they endure.

\\"Later, I will gradually convince myself that the loss accompanied by the shock in childhood was a possible reason behind the emergence of the disorder that I suffered from.\\"

The author describes all these feelings in a small book that is being judged in a single session.

Done

September 19, 2019

February 28, 2023

One of my literary pet peeves is writers penning about their mental illnesses. I tend to avoid books of this nature, mainly because I think the cult of romanticism encircling artistic despair is misdirected to the extent of being offensive. It brings to mind the experience of being trapped in an undergraduate seminar with that girl who donned black eyeliner and an excessive number of bracelets, carried around prominent copies of Plath and Sexton, and composed bad poems about her sex life.

As both a writer and an individual who endures from chronic depression, I perceive nothing romantic about the myth of the suffering artist. (It also infuriates me that many people assume the two aspects of my life are interdependent: I suffer, thus I write. I write, so I suffer. No. I am depressed because I hail from a long line of depressives, and I write because I desire to, and I take it seriously, not as some form of mad exorcism or touchy-feely therapy.)

Consequently, the notion that I - or anyone - would write about their own suicidal tendencies appears both hackneyed and perilously misleading. However, I was touched by Styron's concise and unemotional account of his struggle with depression - mainly because he did not link it to any "artistic" sensibility whatsoever. It is a slender volume, yet a significant portion of it was dedicated to his utter bewilderment. His depression set in during middle age, when he was settled, married, and employed. It was not something that blazed within him like "the fire of inspiration" - it was terrifying, origin-less, and ultimately incapacitating. This is something to which I related - depression is an irrational, lonely, and very physical ailment, and not always associated with the grandiosity of one's ego or the zenith of one's art. I became a little emotional at the end, with the Dante quotes. So true.

In the middle of our life's path,
My soul is lost in a dark forest
When I strayed from the right way...

The book is a personal experience of depression by the author.
Depression is a malicious cancer of the soul that doesn't hesitate to destroy everything within a person, such as love and self-respect. It kills the desire for everything like food, sex, and even looking at people's faces. One becomes unable to sleep but also can't get up from the bed.
And there is no physical illness in the world that causes such disability as depression. It is the loss of hope, and there is no sin greater than that.
Losing hope in getting better or having that buried pain in your shadows disappear. Losing hope in any medicine or person, and only wanting to extinguish that pain which has reached its peak by extinguishing the operation of that machine, that is, ending your life...

"There is no single and truly dangerous philosophical problem other than suicide. Whether life is worth living or not is the fundamental answer to the question posed by philosophy."

The difference between depression and grief.
For depression is like a physical illness such as cancer and rheumatism.
It is a disorder in the cells, a storm of the stress hormone cortisol.
While grief is a passing feeling that people suffering from depression do not benefit from...

The author suffered from his addiction to alcohol, as it was a way of escape from some of his pains. And this is an honest and common thing, as you always see that a person suffering from mental illness does not leave cigarettes or his glass or something stronger and more intense...

The author is angry at the harsh view of society towards suicides. He sees that people think they have no right to lose hope or end their lives, but those who say this do not know the pains of these people. And this is not only in our Islamic society because of religion, but in the whole world, this discrimination exists. For example, in Britain, there were cemeteries specifically for suicides along with those who died alone and the homeless, and even they are despised at their death!!

The author also mocks the word "depression" as it has a light fall and does not give the disease its dignity, and he prefers to call it "melancholia."

Unfortunately, that disease has become very widespread among us
For many reasons that are too long to mention... It has taken from among us scientists, great writers, and athletes. It does not distinguish between anyone, nor does it prevent wealth, nor faith, nor people...

But there must be a light at the end of the dark tunnel. It is a curable disease, but don't become alone. Ask for help, seek the help of a person who loves you or a specialist doctor. Don't hesitate, for it is your life...

The author is in a period of depression.

I have established a connection with him completely.

During this time, I have been listening to his thoughts and feelings carefully. He seems to be trapped in a negative emotion and cannot get out.

I try to encourage him and give him some positive suggestions. I tell him that depression is a common emotion and everyone will experience it at some point in their lives.

We also talk about some of his hobbies and interests, hoping to help him find some pleasure and meaning in life.

Although the process is not easy, I believe that as long as we persevere, he will definitely be able to get out of the shadow of depression and return to a normal life.

Maybe I'm being needlessly harsh in my one-star rating.

However, there was something about Styron's memoir that truly distressed me. I read it during one of my own bouts of depression. For some reason, I decided to pair it with The Bell Jar. Instead of finding any comfort or recognition in Styron's words, I just felt angry. I became fixated on the ways we (women, men, Americans, depressed people, etc.) discuss depression and what it means when we call it by different names. Even the title of the work, "A Memoir of Madness," grated on me. I started (perhaps unfairly) projecting onto Styron, grumbling to myself that when fancy male writers are depressed, it becomes madness, as if they all think they're King Lear or something. (This is when a simultaneous re-reading of Sylvia Plath was not so helpful but provided an interesting contrast.)

It was also around this time - and this was in a total fit of unabashed Crazy - that I decided to reclaim the phrase "mental illness." Man, that was a bad week.

But I guess what I really struggled with, in reading this memoir, was the idea of finding anything noble in suffering from depression. I've never felt especially noble or touched by a strange, dark power or whatever. I've spent almost fifteen years of my life believing that I'm broken and that I should cheer up already. I know that there's no such thing as capital-D Depression, and that we all experience it differently (and maybe even differently throughout our own lives). But there was just something about Styron's tone that really irked me.

The first thing I read this year after a short break from reading for reasons beyond my control.

Brief notes on suicide by one of its victims whose number is estimated in the millions worldwide, after drowning in the Sudanese well of thoughts that gradually turn into suicidal thoughts and generate dangerous psychological waves for suicide as if it were a lifebuoy for the patient, but of course this is not the case at all.

The condition of suicide patients is actually like that of cancer patients or those with other serious diseases. Their feelings or daily sufferings should not be ignored, and it is not allowed to ridicule these severe pains and push them quickly to flee from their reality, escape, and think of suicide as a salvation for them.

Throughout my reading of these notes and I am the narrator of the hidden pain who described his sufferings and the accompanying psychological and physical pains of his suicide...

May God help these patients and heal them, O Lord

William Styron has returned from depression and is sharing with us his days, feelings, and thoughts during that period. How many people write down such memories so that we can read and learn from them? This book is good. It is a must-read for all those who are hopeless and listless, all those who are melancholy and lonely, and all those who often get lost in their minds and thoughts.

It was short and comprehensive. Let's take depression seriously and talk about it. Because depression, like any other disease, has its own specific way and method of treatment. By ignoring and not knowing about it, we just let it grow bigger and bigger.

Styron's account offers valuable insights into the complex world of depression. His words can serve as a source of comfort and inspiration for those who are struggling with this debilitating condition. Through his writing, we can better understand the experiences and emotions of those affected by depression, and perhaps find ways to offer support and help.

Moreover, this book reminds us of the importance of mental health and the need to address depression openly and honestly. We should not shy away from talking about it or stigmatize those who are suffering. Instead, we should work together to raise awareness, provide resources, and promote mental well-being for all.

At a recent tenure party, a friend of mine leaned over to our small group sitting on the couch and revealed that she had just come from the campus bookstore where she had been perusing a colleague’s recent memoir. “I would never expose myself like that!” she exclaimed.

When writers choose to invade their own privacy, as Styron puts it, by sharing a personal struggle, is that what they’re doing—exposing themselves? Certainly, on some level, when Styron sets his struggle with suicidal depression in print, he is. He does so knowing that many of the people who read his book may likely find him “different,” and maybe even judge him to be weak or crazy or both. They will set him aside in their minds as an “other.”

And in a way, isn’t this exactly what my friend was implying with her exclamation—that she doesn’t want everyone to know all the ways, big and small, that she is different or doesn’t “belong”? Yet, what my friend is missing is that a writer like Styron isn’t engaged in a reckless act of self-exhibitionism; he is engaged in a project of cultural critique.

He forges ahead with his story despite the socialized impulse to keep hidden what we are taught to experience as shameful or “abnormal.” His book is an act of faith and a form of resistance. He must trust that readers who have never experienced suicidal depression will find points of connection with him as well as points of difference, thereby experiencing the heretofore unfamiliar as familiar.

His book becomes like a stone dropped into a still pond. It will resonate most profoundly with those who share his struggles, but its resonance will expand out to touch others. His sharing of his account strikes me not as an act of shocking self-exposure but rather as a brave act of generosity. It is a gift to the readers, allowing them to peek into a world they may have never known, and perhaps, in the process, find a little bit of themselves.