My
mother died on January 3, 2013.
Having
always suffered from asthma, it was eventually pneumonia that settled into her
lungs and killed her. The real culprit was mental illness, which she struggled
with at least throughout my lifetime, if not the entirety of hers. She was
eventually diagnosed with schizophrenia a decade or so ago and finally
institutionalized the last few years of her life.
There
is a lot to be said concerning schizophrenia and the dark side. The most overt
example in that long ago, far away galaxy is from the season four finale of The Clone Wars, in which the Sith Lord
Darth Maul makes his anticipated return. Not only has he been physically cut in
half, but his mind has been severed as well. Show-runner Dave Filoni even
referred to his condition in one of the Blu-Ray commentaries as “schizophrenia.”
In
1911, the Swiss psychiatrist Eugen Bleuler coined the term schizophrenia, from
the Greek words “schizein” meaning “splitting,” and “phren” meaning “mind.” It is
quite literally a split mind, a psyche fragmented and dissociated from the rest
of the world. It manifests as a kind of cognitive schism, with the sufferer on
one side of the abyss, and reality lingering a fair distance away.
Which
pretty much sums up Darth Maul, ranting and raving hysterically at the bottom
of a pit, which is where his brother Savage Opress finds him. Lending voice to
the psychosis, Sam Witwer noted on the Forcecast
that this was a visible manifestation of what the Sith were all the time,
although usually hidden below the surface. Witwer referred to the dark side as
“fear and greed, and madness and despair,” which describes mental illness
adequately enough.
Maul had fallen down a hole, created a fictional
reality, and then couldn’t get out again. It usually takes on a less literal
form in real life, but the symbolism is on the mark.
As
Alan Watts once said, “the lunatic is the most isolated person in the world.”
Indeed, one of the tragedies of mental illness is the isolation caused when all
the connection and communication with the outside world is severed, with the
sufferer barricading themselves behind a wall no one can reach.
There really
isn’t anything quite as gut wrenching than someone being alive, yet as shut out
and unreachable as though they were dead. This is what the dark side does too,
as Obi-Wan Kenobi found out on the lava drenched world of Mustafar, when he
lost an unreasoning Anakin Skywalker to the shadows of the dark.
Even
with something like depression, this preoccupation with one’s self is
overwhelming, as though no one else in the universe existed at all. This is not
unlike the obsessive selfishness of the Sith, though of course not in the way
of being morally bad and needing to be punished. This is a selfishness that
makes life a veritable hell.
The holistic way of the Jedi is selflessness, in
the sense of an open and sane communion with the rest of life, of a recognition
of that symbiont circle which binds everything together. There is no hardened
self obstructing one’s view of everyone else. The Jedi are selfless, in some
sense one with the galaxy. The Sith are selfish, in that they feel themselves
so separate and isolated and disconnected from the galaxy that their only
response is to conquer and rule it.
While
schizophrenia is not multiple personality disorder, it is worth noting the
collective psyche of the Sith is often so shattered more than one personality
is born from it, usually sporting a “darth” in front of it. And all of them are
so selfish they refuse to die, because then they can’t cling to anything
anymore. Their refusal to yield to the natural cycle of one generation dying so
the next can be born is perhaps the most obvious form of their madness.
Joseph
Campbell once said that perhaps death is the seminal theme of mythology. Maybe
it is the most seminal theme in Star Wars.
Certainly the character’s differing responses to it speaks volumes about them.
Obi-Wan’s sly smile to Darth Vader in the face of it was both sagely and
eloquent, as well as Yoda’s serene acceptance on his deathbed.
As the Dalai
Lama himself likes to point out, much of religion and philosophy is simply
learning how to smile in the face of the Void. This of course lies in stark contrast
to the Sith’s greedy refusal to accept that life and death are part of a
greater whole, twin brothers along the same continuum.
Ironically, modern mythologies like Star Wars, Harry Potter, and the like are the only
places that death is honestly confronted in this culture. At my mother’s
funeral, this was plainly obvious. It is striking how painfully ill-equipped to
deal with death this society is – much the same can be said for mental illness,
too.
Not only was the funeral home as staged as a television studio, in one
room was my mother’s casket, while in the other people were discussing traffic
and what someone’s hair looked like as well as other banalities. Not to mention none of them were around expressing concern or support when she was alive and
desperately needed it. Just another bit of that cultural schizophrenia we’re
all indoctrinated into accepting as normal, that deep-seated belief that if we all pretend something isn't happening, then it isn't.
While
Campbell talked of the big themes as birth and death, George Lucas told Bill
Moyers in an interview that he also liked to include our relationship with our
parents.
Mine hasn’t been particularly pleasant, with even a substantial part
of the good memories fading into the ether, lost to psychosis and disconnect. I
personally gave up on my emotionally and often physically nowhere father years
ago during my mother’s institutionalization, which was actually a profoundly
positive thing to do. It is worth noting here he never even remotely understood
Star Wars.
My
mother I of course lost to suffering and madness, try as I did to cope with the
situation. It occurs to me now that I’ve actually been grieving and mourning
her for years, only without hope of resolution or closure. For the longest time
I seemed to be the only member of the family who would even acknowledge what
was going on or that she needed help.
For her part, she always did seem to
enjoy Star Wars. We went to all six
movies together, particularly A New Hope,
over and over again. She bought me a lot of action figures, and even secured an
AT-AT Walker for me when it was almost bigger than I was. Most impressive, she even read a
George Lucas biography to forge a bit of connection with me, something rather
amazing for our family.
At
the end of it all, pretty much every Star
Wars-loving child raised in traumatic home situations all crave a Return of the Jedi-style reconciliation
with their parents, at least deep down. Who doesn’t want to crack open that
hard shell separating them from having a deep, meaningful relationship with
their mother or father? Who wouldn’t want to have their parents look at them
with their “own eyes” and finally see clarity and connection and total
understanding reflected there?
Unfortunately,
it doesn’t always happen. Sometimes the best we can do is simply throw our
lightsabers down just as Luke Skywalker did, and refuse to perpetuate the
destructive patterns we were born into. The dramas come in many destructive
forms, be they drugs or alcoholism, abuse or insanity. Some would argue madness
isn’t much of a choice, but I personally remember consciously and deliberately
making one for myself a long time ago not to go there. The highest functioning
person I’m not, but I’m also not crazy.
So
we always learn from our parents, even if we don’t follow their path. Or perhaps
particularly if we don’t.
The
Roman poet Ovid noted in Metamorphosis
that “Be sure nothing perishes in the whole universe, it does but vary and
change form.” This neatly dovetails into Yoda’s speech in Revenge of the Sith, when he proclaims there is no need to mourn or
miss those who “transform into the Force.” A little stoic perhaps, but a rather
startling thing happened to me the day after my mother was buried which faintly
echoes it.
While
standing in line at Wendys before a therapist’s appointment about all this, I
was ushered ahead by three nice, kindly-looking little old ladies. “Don’t
worry,” one told me, “We’ll pretend you’re my son.”
Shocked, I turned around
and looked straight into her eyes. They just smiled back, sane and whole. After
telling her my mother’s funeral had been the following day, she even gave me a
warm hug. Hard to believe the will of the Force wasn’t flowing that afternoon.
So
goodbye, mom. We both did our best. Thanks for all those viewings of A New Hope at the dollar show, they were
greatly enjoyed.
Sorry
you won’t get to see the next trilogy. Or who knows, maybe you will.
Peace.
