Tiny Miracles: Fighting Depression with Inspiration

This past weekend, I did something miraculous. I got out of bed. I showered. I brushed my teeth. I put on makeup. I put on clean clothes, cleaned out my car and drove to New Jersey. If I were at baseline, this wouldn’t count as a miracle. But when I’m this depressed, I have to tightly grasp at any small victory I can. And doing all that, plus staying focused enough to manage driving 2.5 hours on unfamiliar roads felt miraculous.

I was visiting my dear friend Brianna. I had met her at Bennington College. She was the cool upperclassman when I was a freshman, and I have the fondest memories of holing away in her dorm room, nerding out over obscure films that we’d watch on her projector. That was before my manic episode. I remember in the midst of that chaos, when I had my whole dorm packed up into my mom’s minivan and I was saying goodbye, she handed me my notebook and said “for later.” When I was home, alone, and feeling like a complete failure for dropping out, I opened that notebook to find a sunflower that she had pressed into the pages, along with her neat handwriting that formed encouraging words. It kept me going. And a visit was long overdue.

Brianna and her flower creations in Ocean Grove, NJ.

So I rallied. I had spent the previous two weeks laying in bed, unable to move. But I found myself, miraculously, sitting on the couch in her beautifully furnished living room, petting her lovely tiny dog, Lonzo. We caught up over mugs of hot cocoa, and headed to bed early (we were no longer in our roaring twenties). And I slept, for the first time in I don’t know how long, soundly, on clean sheets, in a clean room, far away from my problems.

Over the past few weeks of my depression, I’d tried to journal. But the only entry I’d been able to make was bleak: “Just when I’ve thought I’ve made peace with my disorder, shook hands and said, ‘I understand, we’re in this together,’ it rears back and lands another nasty blow. It’s not the first time it’s betrayed me, and yet, I never seem to see it coming. Its nature is sneaky. It creeps up on me when I’m least expecting, then takes everything. This depression is brutal. It took my mobility. It took my joy and my spark. It took my ability to care. It crawled inside my being, curled up by the dwindling flame and said, ‘I think I’ll stay a while.’” A respite from the fight was welcomed.

I woke up the next morning with energy. We went to a cute local coffee shop, ate cronuts, drank chai lattes and I still had energy. We drove an hour to Asbury Park and I still had energy. Brianna was selling some of her art pieces at a shop on the main strip, so I bopped around to a few different shops (walking!) and found myself with even more energy. Her dad and stepmom came by (socializing!) and I still had energy. Dinner. In public. Around other people. An hour drive back. And I still. Had. Energy. I even had energy to watch the new Lindsay Lohan Christmas movie before bed! Miracles happen.

Lonzo, my nephew.

The next morning (after sleeping soundly - again!) I packed, gave my thanks, got my hugs and doggie cuddles, and said my goodbyes. It had been beyond wonderful to spend time with an old friend. I started my journey back home with mild anxiety (“There are tolls on this route and I have no cash. Will they be the new electronic send-bill-by-mail ones? Google Maps is sending me a weird-ish way. I’m gonna have to stop for lunch, maybe these snacks Brianna gave me will hold me over? There’s gonna be traffic, what if I have to pee? Will I sink back into my depression when I get home, or follow this new upwards momentum?”) but after a half hour on the highway, it wasn’t so bad.

On one stretch of highway, somewhere in NY state, I noticed a sign for Beacon. “Dia Beacon!” popped into my head. I hadn’t been since that one high school field trip, and had always meant to make it back. The exit was coming up. “What are you going to do? Go home and lay in bed some more?” I took the exit.

I hadn’t planned on a detour, much less to an art museum, and as I wandered, it all seemed a little more magical than normal. The idea struck me subtly that I hadn’t thought I’d ever gone to an art museum alone. It was lovely. I felt at home in myself. There was so much to see. And when I saw Louise Bourgeois in small print on the museum map, I edged my way in her direction.

I had seen some of her sculptures at MASS MoCA and had first learned about her when I was studying at Manchester Community College years ago. Back then, I was just starting to make art about my trauma. Her main room had some of her smaller works, laid out as if to examine her process. I picked up the laminated artist bio that hung on the wall and read her quote, “Every day, you have to abandon your past or accept it, and then, if you cannot accept it, you become a sculptor.” My therapist had just said the other day, that depression, tied to grieving, lingers in the past.

Crouching Spider, Louise Bourgeois at Dia Beacon. A symbol of resilience and adaptability.

My feet led me further. In a small room towards the back, obscured by view until I neared closer, was one of her spiders. My heart was bursting. As I crept closer, tears started to form. I had never seen one of her spiders, and had always wanted to. I’d seen pictures, but to stand in its presence took the breath from my lungs. I stood in this space, which felt small compared to the scale of the spider, and cried softly. I wiped the tears away as a mother and her small daughter entered the space briefly, and left just as quickly, not realizing that they were in the presence of greatness. I looked back at the spider and took a deep breath. “You are why I am here today.” A miracle.

My aura. Taken on our day of adventuring in Asbury Park, NJ.

I made my way home, brimming with inspiration. Then I spent the next two days laying in bed. I was so disappointed. My momentum had come to a sputtering halt. And then the next morning, I found the energy to clean a little. And I finally changed my sheets. And that night, I slept soundly. And I’ll take that win. I’ll take that tiny miracle. And maybe if I store up enough tiny miracles in my confines, I’ll be able to see even bigger miracles form all around me. Maybe some of those miracles will come from my own hands. And maybe, all that, will give me enough ammo to fight back when my depression comes wailing. And I may lose that fight some days, which is okay. But I’ll keep getting back up, back in the ring and back in the studio. And I’ll celebrate the tiny miracles when they come, and I’ll hold close the memory of the victory when they go.