Simone de Beauvoir once said a "woman is not a completed reality, but rather a becoming, and it is in her becoming that. . her possibilities should be defined." Lou Andreas Salome, Marguerite Duras and Rebecca West, three headstrong women with different stories but similarly stormy lives, similarly dealing with issues of body, love and femininity, were women "becoming."
Just like all of us.
Stranger in the Mirror
There should be a law forbidding people who are going through a depression to come anywhere near a mirror. They should be prevented, for their own good, from seeing their reflections until they are way out of their gloom. If for some reason a depressed person must look into a mirror, he or she ought to do so fleetingly. Mirrors are the worst objects you can have around when your self-esteem has hit rock bottom and there are dark clouds hovering above your soul.
Yet here I was, alone in the room, looking into a mirror for what felt like an eternity. It was a round mirror with budding and flowering roses carved in its silver frame and a reflection of a young woman staring back. Her hair was unwashed, her body was that of a rag doll and her eyes were immensely sad. Never lifting my gaze off her, I scrutinized this familiar stranger with a curiosity that verged on anger. As she was new to me, I couldn't help wanting to know more about her. I was furious with her, too, because somehow she had replaced me. Of one thing I was sure: The woman in the mirror was sinking, and if she sank deeper, she would take me down with her.
In some parts of Turkey, elderly women believe that mirrors are not, and have never been, simple decorative objects. That is why they adorn not the fronts but the backs of mirrors and then hang them on the walls with their backs facing out. If and when a mirror has to be turned around, it is covered with a dark cloth — preferably black or red velvet. You move the cloth aside to take a peek at yourself when combing your hair or applying kohl, then you pull it back down. The surface of a mirror is thought to be too dangerous to leave exposed in the open for too long. It is an old Eastern tradition nowadays mostly forgotten, but there are still many grandmothers who see in every mirror a gateway to the unknown. If you look into a mirror for too long, there is a chance that the gate might suddenly open and suck you inside.
Around the globe there are several words that function like common currency. East or West, wherever you go, the words sound more or less the same in every language and culture. Television and telephone are the most well-known examples; Internet is yet another. And so is depression.
As common as the word depression is across languages, there are still noteworthy cultural differences. In Turkish, for instance, one says "I am at depression" instead of "I am depressed." The word is used as if depression were less a state of mind than a specific area, a dark corridor with only a weak light bulb to illuminate the place. The person who is depressed is thought to be not "here," but in that "other space," separated by glass walls.
Not only are the depressed in a different place but their relationship to time is also warped. Depression recognizes only one time slot — the past — and only one manner of speech: "If only." People who are depressed have very little contact with the present moment. They live persistently in their memories, resurrecting all that has come and gone. Like a hamster on a wheel or a snake that has swallowed its tail, they are stuck in a roundabout of gloom.
That, pretty much, was my state of mind in the weeks that followed. Something had ripped inside of me, something I could not quite put my finger on, and through that opening in my soul all the anxieties and worries I had accumulated throughout the years were now pouring out in an unstoppable flood.
But what really made it worse was that I could not write anymore.
I was eight years old when I started writing fiction. My mother came home one evening with a turquoise notebook and asked me if I would like to keep a personal journal. In retrospect, I think she was slightly worried about my sanity. I was constantly telling stories, which was good, except that I told these to imaginary friends, which was not so good. So my mother thought it could do me good to write down my day-to-day experiences and emotions.
What she didn't know was that I then thought my life was terribly boring. So the last thing I wanted to do was to write about myself. Instead I began writing about people other than me and things that never really happened. Thus began my lifelong passion for writing fiction, which from the very beginning I saw not so much as an autobiographical manifestation as a transcendental journey into other lives, other possibilities.
Now, however, I felt as if illiterate. Words that had been my lifelong companions abandoned me and dissolved into soggy letters, like noodles in alphabet soup.
Gradually, my condition became apparent to those around me.
Some people said, "You must be having a writer's block or something. No big deal, it happens to everyone. It will pass."
Others said, "It's because you went through some pretty stressful days. You were brought to trial due to the words uttered by characters in your novel The Bastard of Istanbul. Being pregnant at the time, it was a taxing experience and took its toll."
My maternal grandmother said, "Your depression must be the doing of the evil eye. May those malicious eyes close!"
A spiritual master I visited said, "Whatever the reason, you need to embrace your despair and remember, God never burdens us with more than we can bear."
Finally, a doctor I consulted said, "Welcome to postpartum depression. Let's start with two Cipralex a day and see how it goes. If you experience any mood changes down the road, you should immediately report them to me."
"Thank you, Doc," I said, putting the pills in my shirt pocket.
Cipralex, Xanax, Prozac. . The trouble was, if I started taking them, my milk would have been affected, and I wanted to breast-feed.
That same afternoon, back at home, I thought hard about this dilemma and decided to give my Cipralex pills to the pink cyclamen in the kitchen. One in the morning and one in the evening, on an empty stomach. Every second day, the fuchsia in the sitting room got its share of Xanax. Four times a week, I put Prozac into the gardenia's soil and watered it to make it easier for the plant to gulp the pill down.
A month hadn't passed when the cyclamen turned a color so dark it was almost purple and the fuchsia's leaves went numb, unable to feel anything. The gardenia was perhaps the one that was most deeply transformed. What a blissful flower she had turned into — jovial and buoyant, cracking jokes, giggling from dawn to dusk.
My mood, on the other hand, remained the same.
Lord Poton and His Family
Today it is a well-known fact that many new mothers go through an emotional turbulence in the early stages of motherhood. Yet only a few actually get to meet Lord Poton. Most women come across his young, innocent nephew, and then there are a small number of women who, unfortunately, run into his nasty uncle.