After my freshman year of college, I developed an interest in meditation. Not the interest in Buddhism it would become to be, but just sitting and being still. The draw was towards a greater sense of focus in my day-to-day. maybe a deeper sense of calm was also a factor. I had always been a person interested in 'advancing my mind,' as every young self-styled intellectual does. I thought meditation would be a way towards cultivating a sharper mind. So I began meditating every morning.
I soon after entered a depressive episode. I had a few minor panic attacks on campus and quickly fell into the deep trench of it. It was a mix of symptoms and experiences: oversleeping, trouble with appetite, deep pessimism on just about everything, and of course a hopeless mood. I was taking classes, and doing the bare minimum to function as I normally would. I was still meditating. I had noticed disturbances in my usual state of mind around the start of this depression, and that escalated into what felt like a complete loss of everything I had been doing this for. I still kept going, in the hope that I would come back to the calm I had once felt.
Meditation, for me, was a very simple task: sit as still as possible and follow your breath as it goes in and out. Nothing more. It keeps you focused on one thing for the duration. You do not direct your breath, thinking "now I breathe in, now out," instead following the way you naturally breath without any conscious intervention. There is nothing mystical or supernatural about the activity: it does not give you super-intelligence (like Dune portrays), nor deliver you to an otherworldly realm of nirvana. It was just a calming activity with tangible effects: increased focus and calm.
My depression had not let up through the winter. I was seeing a therapist now, and though she probably should have referred me to a psychiatrist for a healthy dose of anti-depressants, I was happy with our sessions. The meditation was still struggling along. I was around the 6 month mark for both of these daily experiences. I felt nothing. I had joined a Bible study to make friends, and though the study itself was in direct opposition to what I thought, I stayed for the people who were nice to me. I was lonely, intensely lonely, and felt I had few people to reach out to. It was partly true I didn't have much in the way of close friends, but my self-isolating tendencies were really pushing people away.
Then one day in the spring it lifted. The realization was not immediate, but after a few days I was doing well. I had changed majors that semester, and began reaching out. I became passionate about my schoolwork; it was suddenly intensely interesting. I even stayed up for several days, getting only a few hours of sleep each night, hanging out with people and having inspired ideas related to my classes. This finally culminated in some intense imaginative episodes, something a mystic in antiquity would call a vision, and I knew something was wrong.
My meditation had meanwhile fallen away. My now-messy schedule meant my morning was a lot less structured, and I skipped the meditation until I just forgot about it. Meditation, when viewed as the simple activity it is, is uninspiring if you get caught up in the daily rollercoaster of life. And that is exactly what I'd done. What I didn't realize is that is the point: meditation is to bring you away from the rollercoaster of life into a calm space where you no longer ride the rollercoaster. I had lost my sense of calm life, even when the external world roars around you.
I got myself referred to a psychiatrist, and my personal suspicions had been correct: Bipolar disorder. I was put on fairly standard medication, and began meeting with the psychiatrist to discuss medication, its side effects and efficacy, regularly. I met with this doctor until I graduated college. I had mostly minor mood fluctuations, but was overall stable.
I went off to grad school with my then-girlfriend, moving to a big city and having a wonderful time. My PhD is tough, and despite my troubles I was still continuing on with it. At the end of my third year, my advisor got a job at a new university halfway across the country, and I was transplanted.
I had hardly touched any sort of meditation in the interstitial 5 years. Life was roaring around me. I was on the rollercoaster once again, and not ready to step off.
In my new town, I visited a book store and saw a copy of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. I bought it even though it was probably overpriced. I wondered if that old meditation thing would still interest me. I sat in meditation a couple times, began reading my new book, but soon felt disturbances in my state of mind. Pessimism, hopelessness, oversleeping, all began to manifest. My meditation routine lasted all of 2 weeks, and I began the agonizingly slow slide back towards depression.
At this point, I had to wonder if this was a cycle, a warning sign. Is meditation a trigger for a depressive episode? Then why do I keep coming back to it? Or is it simply a warning sign: "If you liked meditation, you may also enjoy [insert mood stabilizer of choice here]?" It worried me also that I so deeply appreciated the newfound teachings of Zen Buddhism when they were so tied to my depressive episodes? It could be a coincidence, but now it feels like a pattern.
This depression lasted a summer long. Not as long as my first episode, but definitely hard. The pessimism and loneliness hits the worst. Hating other people, and being lonely because of it. Hating myself for hating others. And so on. But eventually it lifted, and my mood flipped again. I ended up in a in-patient psychiatric hospital for a few days. My medications were switched, and I began to read to pass the time. I got my copy of Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind. I finally finished it. After getting out, I found a Zen group to sit with, and began reading more books on Zen Buddhism.
With this new Zen group, I learned about a series of paintings and poems known as The Ox-Herding Pictures. They depict various stages you may find yourself in towards englightenment. The stages, as actually experienced, are traversed non-linearly, out of order, and often in a back and forth manner. There is no straight line path towards englightenment. One in particular sticks out to me as especially salient, "Seeing the Ox." This is the stage where a Buddhist gets a glimpse of what is possible. They see that a calm self lies within them, and it can always be returned to. You see the platform off the rollercoaster of life. You have a time, maybe just a moment, where you realize something else is possible.
I sat in meditation this morning for 20 minutes. It is not a long time, nor is it particularly short. When you sit, you let thoughts arise and fall of their own accord, like you breath does when you let it. The intent is to let things be as they are, not to direct, manipulate, or interfere. This applies to everything, including my mood. If my interests wax and wane with my mood, I let it be how it is. If sometimes I find myself doing a loop-de-loop on the rollercoaster, I let it be how it is. If I become depressed, or anxious, or manic, I let myself be how I am. Only in this way can I fully engage and realize my life in reality.