About three weeks back, I was brainstorming with my wife regarding writing prompts. There was one that particularly caught my attention: “What would it look like if nature was depressed?” I began jotting down several ideas and planned to post it today. Then Harvey happened, and the thought about nature and the natural event merged into a single idea.
We live about 170 miles north-northwest of where Harvey came ashore. It was forecast that our community could be hit with 70 plus mph wind gusts and up to 12 inches of rain. We made preparations to evacuate, if necessary. The coastal region was hit fiercely, resulting in destruction and damage to infrastructure and property. Flooding has devastated Houston. People have lost their lives, families are separated, and many are missing. And, Harvey is not finished yet.
We were spared the worst. Winds reached the mid-50 mph range and we received about six inches of rain. As I was walking Monday during the waning hours of Harvey in our area, I noticed the north side of all the vehicles was covered with leaves while the south side was clean. Evidently, we were on the downward side of the counter-clockwise storm rotation. Limbs are everywhere, some trees are down, and shingles from roofs are scattered about. But, nothing more serious happened here. Please continue praying and helping the people along the coast.
The reason all this happened started with nature being depressed. The evolution of a hurricane is something like this: a tropical disturbance occurs followed by a tropical depression, tropical storm, tropical cyclone, and finally a hurricane. It all started with disturbed and depressed pressure.
Those are the facts, but allow me, with respect and sensitivity to those who have paid and are paying a high price because of Harvey, to explore the idea of nature being clinically depressed.
Depressed nature’s day begins in darkness. Tears drip from its cloudy pillow upon the sheets of grass covering the earth. The night lingers, resisting the presence of light. When at last the sun prevails, it emerges clothed in pajamas of black and gray. The light mopes through the day unable to stop its forward motion and uninterested in trying. There is no struggle against the dimness of dusk. Rather, it is strangely welcomed. The skies moan as another day ends with little hope that tomorrow will be different.
It appears nature is trapped in a state of perpetual fall and winter. Things are either dying or dead already. Plants are in various stages of drooping and wilting, the grass is turning brown. Trees that once stood as towers of strength and grandeur are now denuded, slumping toward the earth. Creatures of the earth roam aimlessly in search of what they know not. Some are thin for want of appetite, while others are fat but never satisfied.
The caretakers of the earth worry about its prolonged sadness, decreased production, and low birth rates. The perpetuation of species is so disturbed that many are endangered. Park rangers and visitors are finding neglected and abandoned offspring. At other times, they observe the little ones being over-protected to near suffocation. Fear is thick in the forests and glades.
If one pauses to listen, silence meets them. Birds are not chirping against real or imagined danger. The creatures of the earth fail to communicate with each other where food can be found or a pleasant resting place. There are no sounds of snorting deer or howling coyotes. Buzz is absent from the ear. The would-be-listener longs for the annoying gnat to appear, but alas it too is silent.
Frisbees lay undisturbed and balls gather dust as our companions lose interest in playing. The purr of pleasure is silent against our gentle strokes.
Batteries die as solar panels and wind mills are unable to collect energy from the unmoved wind and shadowed light. Coal and oil refuse to burn, atoms will not split. Thermal energy weakens as the core of the earth grows cold. The earth is too weak to quake.
Geysers are less faithful. Springs become temperamental and artesian wells sputter. The dysthymic morning mist that gives the Smoky Mountains its name lapses into depressive fog. The tide whimpers ashore. Nature appears to have lost its will to live.
The caretakers of the earth paint and decorate artificial masks of splendor in an attempt to both hide nature’s sadness and in a pretense of normalcy.
None of this, of course, describes Harvey. He is angry and violent. Anger is widely accepted as a symptom of depression in men. Dr. Michael J. Formica wrote, “Show me a mad guy and I’ll show you a sad guy.” Harvey came ashore in southeast and south-central Texas full of rage. Where he has been is evidenced by the destruction and misery he’s left behind. Although Harvey is weakening, he is still very capable of violence as he heads toward east Texas and western Louisiana.
This is a solemn piece, I know, but clinical depression is a grave condition. In the days before I became clinically depressed, my family and I laughed at the way I shuffled on days I had a depressed mood. I couldn’t replicate that shuffle when I was feeling good. Then came the day when it ceased to be funny and became frightfully chilling.
Texas will recover from Harvey. Nature will rebound. In a few years, scars left behind will exist in memories alone.
Most people who become depressed will eventually go into full remission and never have another episode. For a small minority, partial remission is the best outcome we can expect.
The greatest technological advances of humankind have yet to find a way to control the Harvey-like eruptions or dark and teary moods of nature. This is not so for most people who have a major depressive disorder. For all, but a limited few – 1/1000 of a percent of the population – depression is treatable.
Harvey is dying. By the end of the week it will likely be no more. The wind and rain, and all the other weather events a hurricane can spawn will be gone. The sun will shine again.
Unlike Harvey, you and I who fight depression do not have to die – either physically or emotionally. There is hope for a better tomorrow. You and I have a reason to live.