for head. But, in a more extensive way, metaphor was becoming more true, if not more actual, than reality. Metaphor had more significance. There was meaning in this madness which I must find, I thought. Metaphor matters in madness. Matters so much that you could say metaphoris the material of madness, the mothering tongue of the madstruck mind, mater of it all. I could feel the metaphoric weight of things in my mind, heavy as a mountain. More importantly, metaphors alone could bear the weight which my mind, heavy with intensity, placed on them. Metaphor was strong enough. Reality wasnât. Reality weighed so lightly on me that the actuality of the entire Cambrian mountain range was a skittering colt in frantic canter. Significance shifted. Gravity, heft and import were all located in the metaphorical world.
I was dwelling in the realms of metaphor. At the beginning of this madness, my main metaphor was ocean, being at the shoreline before the tsunami; later, I felt like a broken boat in sea surges of storm, in waves that would wreck me. Over and over again, I felt I was drowning. In a brief and brilliant moment, my realm was starlight; I felt I was flying in the flickering world of utter space. For months, though, my realm was mountains. The edge. The abyss. The death zone at the peak.
What does it mean, to live in metaphors? I was perfectly aware that my actual physical self was sitting next to my woodstove, or in the garden shed, or at the piano; I knew this was the literal and tangible truth, but this was not the whole truth. The wider, deeper truth could only be told in metaphor. âMeta-phorâ, in its etymology, means a carrying-across of attributes from one thing to another. Metaphor also carries meaning across from one person to another; it is a messenger bearing messages. The god of metaphor is Mercury; this is the realm of the Trickster, carrying things across borders, living in the in-between.
If a person uses a metaphor, they are carrying themselves over, towards the listener, but in madness this need becomes infinitely more intense. In a manic-depressive episode, metaphors are heavywith meaning, and the metaphors one chooses must carry an almost unbearable weight. This, I think, is why people are so stubborn about repeating the precise metaphors which tell their truth. Gérard de Nerval saw depression as a black sun. Poet Les Murray, Winston Churchill and others describe it as the âblack dogâ. Some say they are in an âabyssâ or a âblack holeâ; others that they are âdrowningâ. For the person in crisis, these images are carrying a burden of significance which listeners, be they doctors, psychiatrists or friends, need to appreciate.
When a person is ill, a metaphor is not a decoration, not a trivial curlicue of Eng. Lit., not a doily on the conversational table; rather, it is a desperate attempt to send out an SOS, to give the listener their coordinates, because they are losing themselves. I am on Cader Idris, just before the first peak after the path leaves the lake: do you read me? Over. The perilous geography where my psyche was situated. Situated but dis-located, alone and pathless. I had to be meticulously precise in giving the latitude of my madness, the longitude of my scraps of insight. I was lost and urgently needed to be found, to be located by someone who could (as shamans say) send their souls out to find mine. In terms of our culture, one way of doing this is surprisingly simple: listeners need to hear the metaphors and stay with them. My doctor used my metaphors with almost unfaltering precision, and I felt safer for it. In all the hours of appointments, there was only one time I remember when he used a completely different metaphor to the one Iâd just used, and I couldnât say anything. It was a broken moment, and I was lost, all over again. But every other time, by using my metaphors, he made me feel located, as if I could hold his hand
I was dwelling in the realms of metaphor. At the beginning of this madness, my main metaphor was ocean, being at the shoreline before the tsunami; later, I felt like a broken boat in sea surges of storm, in waves that would wreck me. Over and over again, I felt I was drowning. In a brief and brilliant moment, my realm was starlight; I felt I was flying in the flickering world of utter space. For months, though, my realm was mountains. The edge. The abyss. The death zone at the peak.
What does it mean, to live in metaphors? I was perfectly aware that my actual physical self was sitting next to my woodstove, or in the garden shed, or at the piano; I knew this was the literal and tangible truth, but this was not the whole truth. The wider, deeper truth could only be told in metaphor. âMeta-phorâ, in its etymology, means a carrying-across of attributes from one thing to another. Metaphor also carries meaning across from one person to another; it is a messenger bearing messages. The god of metaphor is Mercury; this is the realm of the Trickster, carrying things across borders, living in the in-between.
If a person uses a metaphor, they are carrying themselves over, towards the listener, but in madness this need becomes infinitely more intense. In a manic-depressive episode, metaphors are heavywith meaning, and the metaphors one chooses must carry an almost unbearable weight. This, I think, is why people are so stubborn about repeating the precise metaphors which tell their truth. Gérard de Nerval saw depression as a black sun. Poet Les Murray, Winston Churchill and others describe it as the âblack dogâ. Some say they are in an âabyssâ or a âblack holeâ; others that they are âdrowningâ. For the person in crisis, these images are carrying a burden of significance which listeners, be they doctors, psychiatrists or friends, need to appreciate.
When a person is ill, a metaphor is not a decoration, not a trivial curlicue of Eng. Lit., not a doily on the conversational table; rather, it is a desperate attempt to send out an SOS, to give the listener their coordinates, because they are losing themselves. I am on Cader Idris, just before the first peak after the path leaves the lake: do you read me? Over. The perilous geography where my psyche was situated. Situated but dis-located, alone and pathless. I had to be meticulously precise in giving the latitude of my madness, the longitude of my scraps of insight. I was lost and urgently needed to be found, to be located by someone who could (as shamans say) send their souls out to find mine. In terms of our culture, one way of doing this is surprisingly simple: listeners need to hear the metaphors and stay with them. My doctor used my metaphors with almost unfaltering precision, and I felt safer for it. In all the hours of appointments, there was only one time I remember when he used a completely different metaphor to the one Iâd just used, and I couldnât say anything. It was a broken moment, and I was lost, all over again. But every other time, by using my metaphors, he made me feel located, as if I could hold his hand
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