Rainy Days and Mondays

Today it’s both. Double whammy. I’ve been thinking about how things like rainy days can affect one’s mood and outlook. It can be hard to handle, especially considering the month of November is the gloomiest on the calendar, in my opinion. I’ve always seen it that way… the leaves are gone…the snow hasn’t arrived to brighten things up.. the days will often be rainy and grey. It’s a difficult time of year for a lot of people.

Twenty years ago this October a student of mine took his own life. His name was Laurent Boucher and he was a talented trombonist. I had no idea what he was going through. In fact, he had stopped taking lessons with me a few months before, saying that he was going to concentrate on becoming a conductor. I saw no reason to worry in this decision, although I was sorry to lose him as a student. He was probably one of the most gifted musicians I’ve ever taught. His decision to translate those gifts into becoming a conductor seemed logical. In retrospect, I wondered if the decision to stop taking lessons was a sign of his depression; that he was distancing himself from people and giving up things he’d formerly loved. I wish I had been more aware.

A fellow student of Laurent’s, Catherine Motuz, now a professional trombonist/teacher in Europe, was also experiencing bouts of depression that year, something she shared eloquently in a recent FB post (click to read the whole post) where she remembered Laurent and the last time she saw him. The day was sunny and cool, the best the autumn has to offer, but Laurent kept his sunglasses on, saying he preferred the darkness just then. That phrase struck me as profoundly sad and telling. I imagine the metaphorical darkness that surrounded him and how the beautiful sunlight must have felt like an insult to him in his despair. How could the sun still be shining as hope for the future kept spiraling down? Catherine would have liked to reach out to him, knowing he wasn’t doing well, but had no idea how to do it. She was kept back by all the usual hesitations we might face in those moments, and no doubt her own youth and inexperience.

I wonder sometimes how I might have reacted had Laurent shared something, anything, about how he was doing. I hope that I might have been able to offer help in some tangible form, but, unfortunately, I probably would have held back, just as Catherine did, worrying about prying, about not saying the right thing, about overstepping. Actually, he may well have let slip some sign of his mental state, but if so, it’s lost in the recesses of my memory, and if he did I obviously didn’t pick up on it. His death came as a complete shock to me.

Recently, I watched the rather painful story of Karen Carpenter, who, at the age of 32, died of Anorexia Nervosa. Her journey seemed to me similar to Laurent’s. A gifted and sensitive musician, like him, who was, in her case overwhelmed and not on the path she wanted to be on, but had no way of expressing it. The documentary seemed to indicate that she found herself swept along in the wake of her fame. I’ve heard that people who suffer from eating disorders are trying, in part, to exert control over their lives, since in some areas they feel helpless. This makes sense for Karen, since I’m sure she felt helpless to get off the fame train once it was careening around the world. Between her and her brother, she was the one who was most popular, she had the voice, the delivery. Her brother had the ambition, and a lot of talent. He needed her and she couldn’t let him down. So much pressure…

Both of these unfortunate young people took their own lives; in the case of Laurent, in one action; and much more slowly, and less consciously, in the case of Karen Carpenter. Although it seems shocking and disturbing to imagine such youthful people experiencing such despair that they see no alternative except to extinguish their own lives, I can imagine on the other hand, that to feel such despair and to contemplate living with it for another forty or fifty years could be just the catalyst for a desperate act.

I remember a moment in my teens when I thought about ending my own life quite dispassionately. It seemed like it wouldn’t be so difficult or so scary at all, and I don’t think I was even particularly depressed at the time. I can’t quite explain it, but I believe I felt like it was all just too much, life was too complicated and uncertain at the time, and wouldn’t it be easier to just quit it? The moment passed quickly enough and I continued on my path. I certainly didn’t get to the point where I was contemplating methods; it was more of a philosophical reflection, but had my mood been a few notches lower, I might have taken an impulsive and irrevocable step.

To any out there who are finding life just too much, I feel for you. It’s logical to feel overwhelmed, sad, and to want to quit sometimes. On the other hand, there are those beautiful days, the ones you want to bottle and take out to enjoy whenever things get you down. There are those good-news days, which it would be sad to miss. There’s great music to listen to and wonderful books to be read. There’s beauty in the gathering dusk of autumn. Life has much to offer. However, some of those things might help people who are mildly down, but serious depression needs serious help. There are many more resources now than existed when Laurent passed away, I’m sure. Here’s one in case you’re in need. https://suicideactionmontreal.org/en/

Here’s a quote from Rebecca Solnit’s book, The Faraway Nearby, where she talks about the power of a sad song. I’ve always felt drawn to sad songs– they comfort me, though it might seem like a contradiction, and she expresses how it feels perfectly.

With a sad song we feel a delicate grief, as though we mourn for three minutes a loss we can’t remember but taste again, sorrow like salt tears, and then close it up like a letter in the final notes.

Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby

Here’s a sad song for your comfort or contemplation. The beautiful, Rainy Days and Mondays, sung by the late, great Karen Carpenter.