(A gift from Bob Diven, inspired by my conch bandage. Isn’t it fantastic?)
We sat side by side on hard metal chairs in the college health center. He was a shaggy-haired, rosy-cheeked young man waiting for a doctor. I was me.
“What are you here for?” I asked the guy. The skin of his left arm and leg were torn and bloody, and he had a skateboard leaned against his chair. “Skateboarding accident,” he said. Naturally. “What about you?”
“Depression,” I answered. I was too spent (and too honest) to fabricate something hip. After months of weeping, wailing, and bottomless misery, I had finally dragged my carcass into the student health center for counseling and antidepressants.
“You don’t seem depressed,” he said. “Actually, you seem really happy.”
Well, of course I seem happy, I thought. I was being treated for depression, not stupidity. If I let myself seem sad, people would avoid me like a clearly-labeled snake pit. Without human connection, what would become of me?
When a nurse called his name, we said our polite goodbyes. As the shaggy-rosy-bloody young man limped off, I envied him. We were both hurting, but his wound was visible, logical, and free from stigma. No one would think less of him for falling off his skateboard, but they might well judge me for talking to a therapist, for sleeping so much, for resorting to medication, for failing to live up to the multitudinous demands of college and Mormonism and work and life as an American female. That guy was bound to heal. Would I?
That was years ago, and I’ve improved considerably since then. But my performance as a human being is still patchy and unpredictable; I’ve been neglecting this blog for weeks, largely because I’ve felt too overwhelmed to share anything worthwhile.
Today, after hiding in bed for about ten hours, I watched The Secret Life of a Manic Depressive. I marveled at the courage of those, famous or obscure, who can step forward and speak frankly about having very serious, stigmatized, painful problems.
Then I crawled back in bed for another hour or two.
Upon emerging, I parked myself at the computer and started publishing my old stories about depression. I know I’m not the only person struggling with daily life, and maybe keeping quiet about my reality has been a disservice to my [five or six] faithful readers.
That’s the story behind my last three “Flashback” posts. Riveting, eh? Now I can go back to bed.
Just wanted to say thank you for being so brave and sharing. Wishing you all the luck and strength in the world.
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And now I marvel at your courage for telling your story! I only speak with the experience of one who has a close family member with depression, but I know that depression is so, so hard. And I know that the demands of being a working American female with a religion don’t make things any easier. You are in my thoughts.
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As a fellow (depressive? depressee?) I know that there are no magic words, so I won’t try. Just know that I’ve been thinking about you, and have noticed your absence.
The stigma of mental illness–and it is only since I went on an antidepressant several months ago that I’ve felt comfortable referring to depression as a mental illness–hurts. There’s a reason I haven’t written about it publicly, you know? Abusive boyfriend, eating disorder (which is also a mental illness but I think it’s perceived differently than depression)–I don’t shy away from discussing personal, painful topics. Depression is still a tricky one. I admire you for putting this out there.
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Riveting indeed.
I’ve wondered as an adult whether I was suffering from depression in high school. We were fairly unenlightened back then so I had no clue about such things. I was well behaved and seemed happy, was a typical LDS nice girl. I just quietly hated much of my life, thought many of the things required of me seemed idiotic and pointless, felt my fellow students and most of my teachers were complete idiots, and completely loathed school. I slept a lot, hated getting out of bed in the morning, read contantly usually had a book in every room of the house. I had stomach problem, which the Dr. termed “trying to get herself an ulcer”, and had arthritis in both knees. These symptoms mysteriously vanished after graduation. Was my mind-body trying to tell me something? If so I didn’t know how to listen.
It is a puzzlement to me. Was I depressed or did my life just actually suck? Would better nutrition, interesting companions, a home that was not 20 miles from town and something to do that was not directly church-related have given me a drastically different world view?
Like all my favorite questions this one is unanswerable at this late date.
I’m glad you were savvy enough to go looking for answers!
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I’ve been thinking a lot about your depression posts. I struggle with depression, anxiety, catastrophic thinking, and feelings of inadequacy, which fluctuate daily and weekly. When I’m fine, I laugh and think, “what was I so worried about?!” but when the anxious and depressive feelings come on again, no amount of rational thinking will make them go away–and while they don’t pin me to the floor, I have arranged a growing number of elements in my life around my anxieties, and I’m tired of it. I’ll probably talk about it on the blog soon, because I’m feeling inspired by your honesty. This year, I think, will be the year I see someone about it.
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Rebekah Reply:
January 28th, 2013 at 7:49 PM
See someone. You deserve a good life.
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