I spent this past weekend in Waco attending Baylor’s Symposium on Faith & Culture, where I presented a paper, and heard many other good ones. The topic this year, Faith & Film, was of course right up my alley, and I’m glad I got the chance to participate. The added bonus of going to a conference centered around film was the fact that it involved several film screenings. I saw, for the first time, the excellent first film in Kieslowski’s Decalogue series, about which I hope to write more in the future. I also got a chance to see a film I have been meaning to get around to since its release a few years ago: Jeff Nichols’ psychological drama Take Shelter. We have in fact run a review of it here, by the Anonymous friend of The Philistine. It’s a quite excellent review, with plenty to chew over, so I won’t attempt another one. Instead, I want to reflect a little on what the film meant for me personally; not something I normally do, but it feels appropriate in this case.
In the post-film discussion, the always excellent Alissa Wilkinson hit the nail on the head in her analysis of the film. She brought up the fact that the film plays in large part as a meditation on mental illness as it manifests itself in the male psyche. Anyone who’s seen the film knows that it deals with potential mental illness – the film displays that theme quite openly. Wilkinson’s insight is valuable because it points to a gendered conception of mental illness that rings true, at least in my experience and the experience of many I know.
So here’s where things get uncomfortable really fast. (Or hopefully not). I have, since some point after my marriage five years ago (no, the events are not related), suffered from depression. It showed up one day, unannounced and unwelcome, and has darkened my door on and off since. In the worst days, before I had the honesty to face my condition, depression would strike and leave me emotionally crippled, sometimes for days. It’s been better since then; I’ve been able to mostly manage it, sometimes with medication, sometimes without. Currently I’m off medication and feeling better than I have in quite some time, thanks largely I think to diet and exercise (and surgery on my nose which has allowed more oxygen in and given me lots more energy). I’m thankful that I never got hit as hard as some people I’ve known, who have been absolutely laid out by depression and other mental illnesses.
Long story short: I’ve wrestled with depression, and so I found myself forging a real connection with Take Shelter’s main character Curtis, played by Michael Shannon. Curtis is a devoted husband and father, but he finds himself subject to increasingly bizarre dreams and visions of an impending storm. These dreams drive him to invest his time, money, and worry in building out his family’s storm shelter. His obsession, though, drives away his wife, daughter, coworkers, and friends. Though the film leaves the question of the truth of Curtis’ dreams unanswered, he certainly fears that they come from a battle with mental illness.
It is in Curtis’ response to his dreams that we find Nichols examining the particular effects of mental illness on American men. To be clear, I’m no gender essentialist, and I know mental illness carries with it a stigma that drives people of both genders to shame and isolation. Still, because of the structures of American life mental illness seems to carry with it for men a particular tendency of self-stigmatization, and a desire to handle things on our own, stoically facing off in a high noon shootout with mental illness. Curtis does this throughout the film. For a very long portion of the running time, he makes no acknowledgement of his disturbances to anyone else. When he does begin to open up, he does so only to medical professionals (first his doctor, then a counselor). Even as he careens toward the ditch of self-destruction, he insists more and more loudly to his wife that everything is fine. His behavior seems willfully stupid if viewed from the outside, but to me it feels like a mirror of my own life. For several years my depression went undiagnosed because I refused to look it in the face. I chalked it up to tiredness from work, or the stresses of adding children to the household. I kept having bad days, but treated them as isolated events rather than as part of a larger pattern. Most of all I tried to hide from my wife, insisting I was fine over and over again, until I believed it myself (though she never did, it should be said).
For Curtis mental illness appears as a battle to be won. If he can just set up the next safeguard, get the next bit of security, then maybe the visions will leave him alone. The prospect of not being able to support his family terrifies him more than anything; he must stay strong and not acknowledge weakness, for to do so would be to let in powers beyond his control. That’s the real specter of mental illness for men, I think (especially men with families): the loss of control that comes with it. Marcus Aurelius tells us that, no matter what else we lose control over, we always have the ability to measure our own response to situations. But what happens when we lose that ability, at least to a large extent? I remember too many times, in the fog of depression, when I would suddenly lose control of my emotions at the slightest provocation, devolving suddenly into a pile of tears, or anger.
Of course with this loss of control comes self-stigmatization. People have started to talk more and more about the stigmas of mental illness, but most of the discussion I have seen focuses on external sources. Those surely do exist (though thankfully I have never encountered anyone who has been less than supportive about my struggles), but just as debilitating is the inner voice of stigma. Perhaps we have ingested the messages of our culture, or maybe it’s just the sinister effects of mental illness itself, but the men I know who have struggled with mental illness tend to blame themselves first and foremost. If only I had done this, or refrained from this. If only I had watched my weight a little more, or stayed away from alcohol. If only, if only. There’s a perverse sort of pride that comes from this attitude – if we are doomed to suffer, at least we have brought it upon ourselves. We do not suffer at the hands of forces beyond our control. As Curtis beats back the knowledge of his condition inside himself, he experiences this mixture of self-hatred and twisted pride.
In the end, it takes Curtis being driven to a place of complete helplessness for him to seek help from others. As long as he has any sliver of hope of beating his condition on his own, he refuses the loving support of his family. When he reaches the point where he must unfold his clutched hand and take the hand of his wife, he achieves release. Thankfully not everyone must reach this nadir before accepting help, but many do. I’m not sure I hit rock bottom, but it took me being humbled to the ground for me to accept the weakness of my condition and to seek help. Depression very effectively isolates you from others, convincing you that no one can or will help. It’s only by letting go of that illusion that we can find the strength to ask others for help. It’s a terrifying prospect, like Kierkegaard’s leap across the chasm of faith, but as Curtis discovered, it’s only with help from those we love that we find shelter from the storm.
