by Walter Chaw It's a six-and-a-half hour drive from my
home in Arvada, CO to Telluride on the Western Slope, and there are two ways to get
there. One way is all highway; the other way is all beauty. I took the
second route, and it made all the difference. I've been in a dark, difficult
place for a long time now, or, at least, long enough in the parlance of
near-crippling depression. I was caught in eddies; I had become inert. I had
almost completely stopped writing. Not just essays like this one, but reviews,
too, which I used to be able to pump out with I think alarming speed and ease.
Early on, someone asked my editor how I did it; at times over the last couple months, I wondered if I'd ever write like that again. Things are hard when you're dark.
Getting out of bed was a negotiation–getting out to a screening was a near act
of God. The thought of accidentally eavesdropping other people's thoughts was
agony. The times I did, of course, were good, because the guilt I would have
felt had I gone and not written on the privilege would have been untenable.
Would that the guilt of not writing on home-video releases have the same
lubricative effect.
I have a good friend who lives far away now
but comes every year to the Telluride Film Festival. He asked me to meet him there.
He asks me every year. I've never accepted his invitation–work has interfered, or fear, or sloth,
or embarrassment at having to put him out, as I likely wouldn't be able to
afford a place to stay, or wouldn't have the planning ability most days to work
up the impetus to schedule. But he asked me again this year, and despite the
black whispering in my ear, I said "yes" and then avoided the topic
in my mind until the morning I left, to protect it from being poisoned.
So I took the beautiful route, the one that
goes over Monarch Pass and through towns named things like "Fairplay"
and places like "Tenderfoot Mountain." It's easily one of the
loveliest drives in a state known for its natural beauty. I took it despite that my illness makes me hate to drive and, more, makes me hate nature…and beauty. It hates
those things like Frankenstein hates fire. It hates those things
because they kill it. Its roots drive so deep because they contract
with fear whenever threatened–it's the facehugger from Alien: you try
to cut that fucker off and the host will die. Or so it would have you
believe.
I downloaded the audio book of the
unexpurgated version of The Stand for the trip up because I had never
been able to force myself to read it, even though I like Stephen King and a lot
of my friends who also like Stephen King consider it his best book. I'm now 16
chapters in. Not a convert, but at least I've begun to bridge this gap.
As I was filling my gas tank somewhere between a
barn that said "Millie's Thrift" and a restaurant promising "Ribeye and Eggs: $10.99," I felt something loosen in my chest. I was
driving a beautiful stretch, in a beautiful state, to stay with dear friends in
a beautiful little town to watch movies. And to write about them. Movies have
always saved my life. Here they go, doing it again.
This was a surprisingly morose yet uplifting piece. Thanks for sharing.
Glad you’re back, Walter. Depression is a truly horrible condition, and whatever works to break it is a Good Thing, no questions asked.
So… ya gonna review ‘Only God Forgives’ then? Lot of heat out there from folk who were expecting ‘Drive 2’….
Walter your writing has meant a hell of a lot to me over the years. I know that doesn’t pay the bills, but you’re not just tilting at windmills. Or if you are then I wish I could do it like you do.
Thanks for this piece, Walter. I’m a fellow sufferer of depression and appreciate what you’ve written here. Thanks for sharing the experience. Love your reviews.
Things are never as bad as they seem, Walter. Don’t lose hope.
Nice try, but you can’t just write yourself out depression.
Gotta smoke blunts. THEN write.
(While listening to music)