Sometimes, reading a book that is not in your comfort zone can be a breath of fresh air.

My roommate purchased this book, and it appeared to be interesting. Naturally, the curious side of me was eager to read it.

It was a book centered around depression and suicide. You might be wondering why I chose to read about those sad individuals in the book and their actions. The truth is, "I don't know." Perhaps it was because I desired to know more, to seek answers to my own questions. To understand what they think when they find themselves in such situations. I am familiar with what depression is... I have been there. However, I always managed to get out in time. It never had complete control over me.

The author confronts depression when he is nearly 60 years old. He speaks from his own experience and informs the readers about the significance of taking the problem into your own hands and finding solutions. Additionally, he mentions that during those moments when depression seizes control of you, the most crucial thing is to have someone by your side, someone who is willing to assist you, spend time with you, and cherish you.

He also provides examples of other people's cases of depression and suicide, as well as the impact their deaths have on others. Moreover, he writes about how incorrect medications can affect our body and mind.

For me, it was a captivating story and also a means of learning new things.

**There’s No Good Word For It**

We lack an appropriate term to describe this condition. In fact, it might not even be a single, unified condition. Each instance of this mental ailment is likely unique and defies proper classification in general terms. 'Depression' is merely a medical euphemism for a complex web of human suffering. Even the highly eloquent William Styron admits that he struggles to adequately describe his own experience.

All the experts concur that there is a chemical malfunction in the brain. However, beyond that, they can only hazard a guess at the pharmacological solution that might relieve the symptoms, sometimes with disastrous side effects. They have no inkling of what psychological or physiological events could trigger this wonky chemistry or when such aberrations might occur in a person's life.
The state that Styron and so many others have endured is not one of simply feeling low, having the blues, or being down, or any of the dozens of other euphemisms. It is a state of complete incapacitation. The malady attacks the body indirectly by attempting to destroy the Self. It is the ultimate autoimmune disease, waging war on existence itself. And all too often, it wins that war through suicide.
There is no permanent cure, no immunity. Drugs may offer temporary relief, but they are not a preventative vaccine. Recovery, therefore, is only a recognition that the beast can strike again and again. There is no way to reduce one's vulnerability. As Styron points out, the genetic roots of the malady are now beyond doubt. Against our genes, we are essentially defenseless.
This malady is particularly associated with artistic talent. Whether this mitigates or exacerbates its tragic consequences remains unclear. Perhaps the "weather inside one's head" is necessary for creative imagination. Perhaps, as Styron's own account implies, artistic expression is a means of forestalling the war against oneself. If so, it may be that the search for the personally unique right word is an essential part of keeping oneself alive.
While reading Styron, I was reminded of a passage by Maurice Blanchot in his *A Voice From Elsewhere*. Commenting on Hegel's *Philosophy of Spirit*, he writes, "Through the blessing or fault of Hegel, we feel that what now seems so alive required the already dead. This is what Lyotard calls melancholy, and others call 'nihilism.'" That is, truly creative artistry, or for that matter, authentic living, requires almost continuous restorative death, even if only metaphorically, of the existing person in order to free the spirit from its inherited constraints. Could it be that there is a meaning to this mysterious illness that we have yet to understand?
Blanchot quotes the poet Samuel Wood [des Forêts]:

“Tell yourself that at both ends of the journey
The most wrenching pain is that of being born
That lasts and clashes with the fear we have of dying,
Tell yourself we aren’t done with being born
But the dead, the dead are done with dying.”

Could it be that this is a clue about the therapy that is truly necessary, the telling of our most intimate stories in a way that feels like it will kill us? Styron might agree. The trick, I suppose, at least according to Blanchot, is not getting stuck on one story, that is, to keep being born.

It seems that this mysterious mental malady defies easy explanation and cure. The relationship between artistic talent and this condition adds another layer of complexity. While drugs may offer temporary relief, they do not address the root causes. Perhaps the key to understanding and treating this illness lies in exploring the deeper meaning of our experiences and finding new ways to express ourselves. As we continue to grapple with this enigma, we must remain open to new insights and perspectives.