Saint Anthony of the Desert (so-called “father of hermits,” 4th century) is said to have written, “Every day I begin again.” Saint Paul in his Epistle to the Philippians, Chapter 3, wrote that he was always needing to forget the past and keep stretching forward toward Christ. In his journal for November 29, 1952 (Journals, vol 3:25), Merton penned what has been for my life, especially in the decade of my Sixties and now at 73, an important paragraph. The annual retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani was ending:
“For my own part, I think much has been done to me in the course of this retreat in emptiness and helplessness and humiliation. Aware that I might crack up at any moment, I find, nevertheless, that when I pray, I pray better than ever. I mean by that I have no longer [a desire for] any special degree of prayer. But simple vocal prayer, and especially the office and the psalms, seems to have acquired a depth and simplicity I never knew before in any prayer. I have nothing but faith and the love of God and confidence in the simple means He has given me for reaching Him. Suspended entirely from His mercy, I am content for anything to happen.”
I suppose I have suffered post-traumatic syndrome since navigating out of my mother’s womb. I have always been melancholic. Even in my twenties I spoke of death often and told friends I would die early. But it was not until my sixties that the Black Dog (what Churchill called his depressions) no longer sniffed outside my window, but snuck into my bed and licked my neck, informing me he might visit frequently. I had tracked his scent for so long he finally found me.
When I returned home in February of this year, after my brother died and shortly thereafter his wife was diagnosed with Stage Four cancer (I accompanied her to her death), the Dog visited and informed me he had come to stay awhile. I can use literary images about it now because of my daily reception of blessed Prozac (40 mg) after eight months of the worst siege against my life I had ever experienced. I got out of bed reluctantly and every day in a daze. I ate little. I spent the day hour after hour sitting in one chair conscious of nothing, my eyes closed, only to move to another chair to spend more hours conscious of nothing, waiting for nothing except death. I picked out the belt I could use and tested which banister of the stairs would hold my weight. I frightened my housemates neither of whom would leave me alone. One time they did leave me to shop and I went out into the yard with the belt, thinking hanging from the fence would be less mess. I went back into the house. It stormed that night: what a scene that would have been.
What stopped me? I was not so gone that I could not see how disrespectful of my friends my suicide would be. And given my writing and retreats on Merton, some might be scandalized. I asked the psychiatrist if he agreed with me that those actually killing themselves are either high on a drug or temporarily out of their minds to actually commit the act. He agreed. Even though I put aside alcohol and marijuana, I knew the chance remained, before the Prozac kicked in, to quote Merton, that “I might crack up at any moment.”
There are more ways to commit “suicide” and I have committed facsimiles of the real physical thing. I called producers to cancel up-coming speaking engagements and retreats. I told a publisher that I could not write a book for which I had a contract. This was the second time I had done this to him, the first during a previous depression, and I did not care that he would never take a chance a third time. I deleted nearly all of my blogs for some nine years on monksworks.com. I only saved one of my favorite reflections, “The Epiphany of Kindness in Sorrow’s Face” and kept all the blogs/podcasts from my hiking journey in 2012 to Santiago de Compostella with Jim Gravois. I know Gravois often revisits these blogs to relive his pilgrimage. I didn’t want to deprive him of that. I have most recently thought, however, of just taking down monksworks.com forever or of just putting a photo of Merton and refer anyone visiting the site to The Thomas Merton Center’s www.Merton.org. I have deleted many skype contacts and slashed names from my email address book.
The thing is, however, that at this moment I have been called back from death by Sara Prozak Tonin. The psychiatrist, the first I’ve ever asked help from in my life, said I must engage her for at least a year and possibly marry her (or one of her siblings serially) for the rest of my life. I bow low with
I am also attributing my current mental health to the prayers of my friends and to the Holy Spirit Herself–all those friends and She who keep loving me in spite of myself and in spite of themselves which is, quoting Merton again for me, “mercies within mercies within mercies.” A young friend in Sweden made me a “Jesus Prayer” rosary when I had presented conferences there in 2015. An Egyptian monk had taught him how to make them. At every knot, one prays, “Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” In my sleepless hours of depression, I could only cling to those beads and pray the only prayer I had to hand. All this was Grace.
I had a significant dream in a past depression. It was the night after a day in which I made an important decision against changing my life at a time I so wanted my life to change. I dreamed that I was Lazarus in the tomb bound up tight and began to chant a mantra to which I eventually woke up: “Only Christ can save me now. Only Christ can save me now.” Whether by means of Prozac or the love of my friends, I choose to believe that Christ has saved me now. Of course, like Lazarus, his miracle on our behalf is temporary. The Black Dog remains at large and quite capable of kissing my mouth again.
Why confess all this? Isn’t this just another way of killing your reputation, your most precious delusions that you are well in others eyes? Perhaps. Not that I ever think myself as “famous.” I couldn’t afford fame. It would take five minutes on a computer for some interested soul to find out who I am when I think no one is looking. Whenever I end a retreat I always say, “There is one thing I’ve learned from Thomas Merton. One can write and speak beautifully about a
This new blog is a signal that I am going to write here again. I have a lot of narrowly published and unpublished reflections on Thomas Merton. I might gather them here for whatever they might be worth. I’ve thought of an e-book but why make anyone pay? But such a project is proof that I have not obeyed the injunction of the Prophet Mohammed, blessed be he, and learned to “die before I die.” If I am to live in Christ, I must die to my “self.”
Resuscitating this blog again is proof I’m not ready to die. I am actually finding myself ready but not willing. Maybe tomorrow “I’ll begin again.” Perhaps continuing a blog and archiving my crap is a weapon to make the Black Dog keep his distance. This too is a delusion. I know he’s thinking of me right outside my window as I type. “Work out your salvation in fear and trembling, old man. Spilling your guts transparently could really turn me on.”
And as to “fame”, my entrails know the truth of Marcus Aurelius’ remark in his Meditations: “In the future, you will forget everything. In the future, everyone will have forgotten you.” Marcus was wrong about himself but not about me.
To write about all this without shame could be a Grace. In case it isn’t, I must remain sober and watchful.
Jonathan Montaldo 12/23/2018