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Welcome to This I Believe, an NPR series presenting the personal philosophies of remarkable1 men and women from all walks of life. Support for NPR Podcasts comes from Visa, offering the Visa signature card featuring concierge2 services for travel, dining and entertainment at Visa signature.com.
I'm Robert Seagal.
And I Michelle Norahson. And this is all things considered from NPR news.
I believe in figuring out my own way to do things.
I believe in the power of numbers.
I believe in barbecue.
Well, I believe in friendliness3.
I believe in mankind.
This I believe.
For our Monday series This I Believe we invite you to send us statements of your personal beliefs. Today's comes from Andy Blowers,who lives with his wife and son in Fairfax, Virginia. He's employed as a software developer and he's working toward a graduate degree at George Mason University. Here is our series curator independent producer Jay Allison.
People who send us their writing are sometimes compelled to do so by hearing the beliefs of others'. Andy Blowers said he'd heard other essays talk about their beliefs in daily pleasures and celebrations, but he felt he couldn't write something like that. Blowers has clinical depression and is forced to find his belief in the context of his illness. Here's Andy Blowers with his essay for This I Believe.
There's a wretched place depression drags me off to after taking control of my thoughts and feelings. It's the place where the longing4 for relief mutes every other desire, even the desire to wake up in the morning. There are days when I wonder if I'll lose everything: my job, my relationships, my last stitch of sanity5. It feels as though I'm breathing hot black smoke. Yet I believe the same depressions that pin me to the mat so often also serve a bigger purpose in my life. They don't come empty-handed. I believe the purpose of suffering is to strengthen us and help us understand the suffering of others.
At 16, my first episode hit me hard enough to think I'd literally6 gone to hell. Now, at 35, when I start dreaming of haunted houses and worrying uncontrollably about the future, I know another episode is looming7. I've got a week's notice, maybe two. And then it's as if I'm drifting off to exile inside myself with only a shell remaining. It used to be that rising from the ash after the depression cleared was like resurrection. The burial over, I'd catch myself laughing or looking forward to the next day. I'd pig out at my favorite deli. But now, when I look closely I find mental illness leaving other significant gifts in its wake, things I didn't discern when I was younger. The discovery is like that scene from The Matrix when Neo finally comprehends his identity. Through the whole film he's been beaten up by evil agents, but the fighting transforms him into a warrior8. And at the right time he understands and uses his power. He's peaceful, even when confronting an enemy. I believe my own years of struggling with depression have left me with similar gifts: Inner strength and calm I can rely on, diminished fear and compassion9.
I believe the painful nights that close in on all of us, in some form, are the cocoons10 from which we might shed our weaknesses. I believe pain tells us something critical about ourselves and life: that developing strength and empathy and bravery is more essential than our personal comfort. And when I think it of like that, I'm more willing to accept suffering on its terms. That's important because if my pattern holds consistent, my next episode is due to arrive soon. I live with this reality, but I'm no longer afraid of it. The depression has, in the end, equipped me for its next visit. And that's enough. Of course, I'll take my medicine, I'll talk to my gifted psychiatrist11. But when the dark does come, I'll stand up and breathe deeply knowing I'm becoming the person I'm supposed to be.
Andy Blowers with his essay for This I Believe. Blowers said he thought there would be some risk in making this public declaration about his mental illness. But in order to honor the bravery he writes about, he felt he ought to do it. We hope you'll consider sending your own statement of belief. Find out more at NPR.org. For This I Believe, I'm Jay Allison.
Next Monday on morning edition, a This I Believe essay from California listener William Noonan on his belief in randomness12 and choice.
Support for This I Believe comes from Capella University.
This I Believe is produced for NPR by This I Believe incorporated at Atlanta Public Media. For more essays in the series please visit NPR.org/Thisibelieve.
Support for NPR Podcasts comes from Acura featuring the all-new turbocharged Acura RDX with available voice-activated navigation. More at Acura.com/RDX.
I'm Robert Seagal.
And I Michelle Norahson. And this is all things considered from NPR news.
I believe in figuring out my own way to do things.
I believe in the power of numbers.
I believe in barbecue.
Well, I believe in friendliness3.
I believe in mankind.
This I believe.
For our Monday series This I Believe we invite you to send us statements of your personal beliefs. Today's comes from Andy Blowers,who lives with his wife and son in Fairfax, Virginia. He's employed as a software developer and he's working toward a graduate degree at George Mason University. Here is our series curator independent producer Jay Allison.
People who send us their writing are sometimes compelled to do so by hearing the beliefs of others'. Andy Blowers said he'd heard other essays talk about their beliefs in daily pleasures and celebrations, but he felt he couldn't write something like that. Blowers has clinical depression and is forced to find his belief in the context of his illness. Here's Andy Blowers with his essay for This I Believe.
There's a wretched place depression drags me off to after taking control of my thoughts and feelings. It's the place where the longing4 for relief mutes every other desire, even the desire to wake up in the morning. There are days when I wonder if I'll lose everything: my job, my relationships, my last stitch of sanity5. It feels as though I'm breathing hot black smoke. Yet I believe the same depressions that pin me to the mat so often also serve a bigger purpose in my life. They don't come empty-handed. I believe the purpose of suffering is to strengthen us and help us understand the suffering of others.
At 16, my first episode hit me hard enough to think I'd literally6 gone to hell. Now, at 35, when I start dreaming of haunted houses and worrying uncontrollably about the future, I know another episode is looming7. I've got a week's notice, maybe two. And then it's as if I'm drifting off to exile inside myself with only a shell remaining. It used to be that rising from the ash after the depression cleared was like resurrection. The burial over, I'd catch myself laughing or looking forward to the next day. I'd pig out at my favorite deli. But now, when I look closely I find mental illness leaving other significant gifts in its wake, things I didn't discern when I was younger. The discovery is like that scene from The Matrix when Neo finally comprehends his identity. Through the whole film he's been beaten up by evil agents, but the fighting transforms him into a warrior8. And at the right time he understands and uses his power. He's peaceful, even when confronting an enemy. I believe my own years of struggling with depression have left me with similar gifts: Inner strength and calm I can rely on, diminished fear and compassion9.
I believe the painful nights that close in on all of us, in some form, are the cocoons10 from which we might shed our weaknesses. I believe pain tells us something critical about ourselves and life: that developing strength and empathy and bravery is more essential than our personal comfort. And when I think it of like that, I'm more willing to accept suffering on its terms. That's important because if my pattern holds consistent, my next episode is due to arrive soon. I live with this reality, but I'm no longer afraid of it. The depression has, in the end, equipped me for its next visit. And that's enough. Of course, I'll take my medicine, I'll talk to my gifted psychiatrist11. But when the dark does come, I'll stand up and breathe deeply knowing I'm becoming the person I'm supposed to be.
Andy Blowers with his essay for This I Believe. Blowers said he thought there would be some risk in making this public declaration about his mental illness. But in order to honor the bravery he writes about, he felt he ought to do it. We hope you'll consider sending your own statement of belief. Find out more at NPR.org. For This I Believe, I'm Jay Allison.
Next Monday on morning edition, a This I Believe essay from California listener William Noonan on his belief in randomness12 and choice.
Support for This I Believe comes from Capella University.
This I Believe is produced for NPR by This I Believe incorporated at Atlanta Public Media. For more essays in the series please visit NPR.org/Thisibelieve.
Support for NPR Podcasts comes from Acura featuring the all-new turbocharged Acura RDX with available voice-activated navigation. More at Acura.com/RDX.
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1
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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2
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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3
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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4
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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5
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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6
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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7
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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8
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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9
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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10
cocoons
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| n.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的名词复数 )v.茧，蚕茧( cocoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11
psychiatrist
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| n.精神病专家；精神病医师 | |
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12
randomness
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| n.随意，无安排；随机性 | |
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