The Depression Post
The Depression Post
I've been taking medication to battle clinical depression for 25 years now. I've written that sentence first mostly to get it out of the way, but also because it's taken me 25 years to write it. Talk about procrastination. The problem with suffering from depression (well, one of them anyway) is that it's often the condition itself that prevents one from talking about the condition. (The first rule of Depression Club is: Don't talk about depression.) It is, at times, like walking around with a giant anvil over your head, ready to pound you into submission at any random moment, ready to take you down 20 pegs until you're just a sniveling puddle of goo utterly convinced of your own inherent worthlessness. It is, in short, a handicap. A debilitating one, and a real one.
The other, maybe bigger problem is that depression is still, if no longer a taboo subject, one that is largely misunderstood, and still somewhat embarrassing to admit. And it's why there are so many cases in which you don't find out that someone "suffers from depression" sometimes ever, or sometimes not until after they're gone. But I'm kind of tired, at age 50, of not talking about it, not even once, so I figure there's no better time than now, on the 4th of July, to talk about it. Consider it my Independence Day from my own shame around it.
So here's the main thing to know: I am not sad. Really. I don't need anyone to send me teddy bears or hugs, though of course both would be awesome and I wouldn't return them. Cash, too, would be great, preferably in small, unmarked bills. I have a great life: A great family, a great job, great friends. If this isn't entirely the life I envisioned for myself as a boy (I'd always wanted to be an English gravedigger), it is one that I feel pretty good about and won't complain about. Suffering from depression doesn't translate to the more casual use of "I'm depressed!" in the way you might say after, say, you've just eaten two Snicker bars in a row, or after discovering that Bristol Palin has her own reality TV show. It's not like that. Most of the time, most days, I'm just like everyone else: Plugging along, trying to avoid thoughts of my own mortality, and trying to squeeze the maximum amount out of fun and pleasure into days annoyingly riddled with real-world responsibility.
What it does do, though, especially on days when, for whatever reason, the meds aren't working well, or (worse) I either forget to take them or (way worse) convince myself I "don't need them anymore," is remove the floor from underneath my feet. Not literally, of course, because that would be rather disturbing and surreal and make me a walking public health hazard. But figuratively, it puts me off balance, quite often in a way I don't fully feel or see or understand until it's already kicked in in a bad way. Those few who are close to me who have known about my depression usually see it before I do. "You haven't taken your meds, have you?" they'll say--because the things I'm saying and my worldview and my energy level become different, different in ways I have no control over or no awareness around in the early stages.
The biggest bummer around it all, for me, is that even when I am being good, the pills don't eliminate it entirely. It's not an on/off switch. Shit seeps through. And the toll of this has affected every aspect of my life for decades. I have days where I can't write anything, decide anything, or really be much of an effective human being at all because of it. It's screwed up my ability to be a good friend, to focus, to be productive. It's kept me, at times, in a fog of self-doubt and self-hate, of low energy, of recrimination and regret over things not accomplished or things never even attempted. It's kept me in a perpetual state of wishing I could do things over again, of feeling like "I've failed" no matter what I accomplish or how many total strangers come up to me and say they like what I've done. I register it, I appreciate it (more than I can express), but it never fully overcomes my own internal dialog, so much of which is just a loud, mean, clattering cloud of noise that a few little pills do their best to dispel day after day. (And not just pills, either, I should say. They're not magic. They are supplemented by a steady, weekly decades-long stream of therapy, to talk the stuff out and get it out of my head.
The other, maybe bigger problem is that depression is still, if no longer a taboo subject, one that is largely misunderstood, and still somewhat embarrassing to admit. And it's why there are so many cases in which you don't find out that someone "suffers from depression" sometimes ever, or sometimes not until after they're gone. But I'm kind of tired, at age 50, of not talking about it, not even once, so I figure there's no better time than now, on the 4th of July, to talk about it. Consider it my Independence Day from my own shame around it.
So here's the main thing to know: I am not sad. Really. I don't need anyone to send me teddy bears or hugs, though of course both would be awesome and I wouldn't return them. Cash, too, would be great, preferably in small, unmarked bills. I have a great life: A great family, a great job, great friends. If this isn't entirely the life I envisioned for myself as a boy (I'd always wanted to be an English gravedigger), it is one that I feel pretty good about and won't complain about. Suffering from depression doesn't translate to the more casual use of "I'm depressed!" in the way you might say after, say, you've just eaten two Snicker bars in a row, or after discovering that Bristol Palin has her own reality TV show. It's not like that. Most of the time, most days, I'm just like everyone else: Plugging along, trying to avoid thoughts of my own mortality, and trying to squeeze the maximum amount out of fun and pleasure into days annoyingly riddled with real-world responsibility.
What it does do, though, especially on days when, for whatever reason, the meds aren't working well, or (worse) I either forget to take them or (way worse) convince myself I "don't need them anymore," is remove the floor from underneath my feet. Not literally, of course, because that would be rather disturbing and surreal and make me a walking public health hazard. But figuratively, it puts me off balance, quite often in a way I don't fully feel or see or understand until it's already kicked in in a bad way. Those few who are close to me who have known about my depression usually see it before I do. "You haven't taken your meds, have you?" they'll say--because the things I'm saying and my worldview and my energy level become different, different in ways I have no control over or no awareness around in the early stages.
The biggest bummer around it all, for me, is that even when I am being good, the pills don't eliminate it entirely. It's not an on/off switch. Shit seeps through. And the toll of this has affected every aspect of my life for decades. I have days where I can't write anything, decide anything, or really be much of an effective human being at all because of it. It's screwed up my ability to be a good friend, to focus, to be productive. It's kept me, at times, in a fog of self-doubt and self-hate, of low energy, of recrimination and regret over things not accomplished or things never even attempted. It's kept me in a perpetual state of wishing I could do things over again, of feeling like "I've failed" no matter what I accomplish or how many total strangers come up to me and say they like what I've done. I register it, I appreciate it (more than I can express), but it never fully overcomes my own internal dialog, so much of which is just a loud, mean, clattering cloud of noise that a few little pills do their best to dispel day after day. (And not just pills, either, I should say. They're not magic. They are supplemented by a steady, weekly decades-long stream of therapy, to talk the stuff out and get it out of my head.
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