After my long
ordeal, I came to
realize that all the
doctors and pills and
therapies psychiatry
had to offer would
never be enough.
Somehow, I would have
to build up my own
resistance to this
horrible mental
illness. I, myself,
would have to develop
some control over it.
In addition to
taking the medication,
I began to walk an hour
every day, to do every
volunteer job I could
find and to take up
creative writing and
yoga. I listened to
music--all kinds of
music at all hours of
the day and night.
Charlie Byrd, Vivaldi,
Johann Strauss, Stan
Getz--all played a role
in my self-styled
therapy.
Although I had never
been a good dancer, I
began to twirl around
the living room,
fantasizing I was in
Vienna in a gorgeous
ball gown, waltzing the
night away.
In my fantasy, I
imagined that there was
a mangy black dog on my
shoulders, but I
waltzed so fast that he
finally couldn't hang
on any longer, so he
fell to the floor and
ran off. And I just
kept on dancing the
whole night through.
The visualization
was so powerful that I
literally felt myself
to be there in Vienna,
in that ballroom. No
one could be depressed
in that ballroom. I
would not be depressed;
I would be well and
happy. I told myself
this over and over
again while listening
to the music. After
several weeks, the
depression lifted and I
was well once more...
For over three years
now, I have managed to
keep my illness at
arm's length by taking
my medication and using
these various
techniques.
Two years ago, while
vacationing with my
husband on the Hawaiian
island of Kauai, severe
depression struck once
again. But I made up my
mind to try to control
it. Although barely
functioning, I drove 30
miles to the nearest
drugstore, where I
located some dusty
tapes of Strauss
waltzes, which I then
played day and night.
At first, I could only
move one finger slowly
to the music, but I
kept on playing the
tapes over and over. I
told myself that I
would not be depressed
in Hawaii, I would be
joyful in Vienna. The
music and visualization
worked and the
depression disappeared
in a few weeks.
That mangy black dog
is still there; he
didn't die and I know
it. I can sometimes
feel him lurking
around. But as he
approaches me and
begins to pounce, I
take out my medication,
my writing notebook and
my waltz tapes and I
scare him off. It's all
I can do, but I do it
so faithfully and
fiercely that I like to
believe that I've
gotten rid of him
forever. And maybe,
just maybe, I have.
(Chevalier, 1990, pp.
12-14.)