“Sometimes, hell has no words.”
I found my way to Martha Manning’s “Undercurrents” by way of coinciding streams. During the past two months dealing with themes of grief and loss, my clinical supervisor kept making reference to this “authoritative text on depression” which he kept offering to bring to our sessions for me to borrow. Having such a long list, I declined continuously. Then, after a long hard summer, my good friend gifts me a copy. Not used to spending my free time reading non-fiction, I reluctantly yielded my attention to a book that seemed to be calling out for me, perhaps it was timely. After all, I had been in the midst of grief, mine and my therapy clients.
What I discovered in Manning’s “Undercurrents” was nothing less than revelatory entries from a year-long dark night of the soul. Recording her impressions, feelings, and psychological observations on her life, Manning touches to the core of how depression and loss and grief can plow down a person like tides over small castles of sand. I read the book mostly on terraces in Paris, and felt a familiar pang in my heart when reading sentences like “Today is the last day of summer. What a time. What a long lonely time. I never knew days could stretch out so endlessly. Stretch so far I think they’ll break, but they only heave and sag. The weight of them bears down on me mercilessly. I wake after only two hours’ sleep, into another day of dread. Dread with no name or face. Nothing to fight with my body or wits. Just gnawing gripping fear. So hard and heavy. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow…All escapes are illusory—distractions, sleep, drugs, doctors, answers, hope…”
Manning records her experiences working with clients with terminal illnesses, about their faith and doubts, about their deaths, about the weeks she spent in a Trappist monastery silently trying to find God or solace. She writers about her time in a psychiatric ward, of the same of being a clinical psychologist so depressed she had to undergo electroshock therapy. Her reflections have a black humour to them—and she rages against quick answers and easy advice: “when you’re depressed, everyone has an opinion about what you should do” she writes. As she writes, the reader gets a greater understanding of how a person might “suffer from” depression. She contends with moralistic views that might see depression as a defect of will or character flaw, while revealing how those who go through it can often experience a greater capacity to comfort others. Ultimately, she writes that therapy is about being with others in their suffering, even when there are no words left in their personal hells. It’s entering into the hell with them, “looking them straight in the eye without flinching. You have to learn what to say and you have to learn how to shut up. And sometimes it’s enough.” As she writes in the first entries, therapy is “part science, part art, part luck.” I have not resonated so much with a book in so long. I can’t count the amount of times my faces winced, attempting to hold back tears from the dining Parisians around me, and could do nothing else but place the book on the table, take another sip of espresso, close my eyes, and listen to the accordion and the fountain singing a song around me, allowing a tear or two to stream down my cheeks. Thank you, Martha Manning, for making me feel so known.