I can tell you exactly when I first realized I was depressed. Strangely enough, it was when everything in my life was perfect. I had just gotten home from a trip to France. It was the beginning of my senior year in high school. I was signed up for classes that I actually wanted to take, none of which would be too difficult or stressful for me. I was surrounded by friends and family. And still, I was unhappy. I could no longer say to myself, “Oh, if only it were the weekend” or “If only I didn’t have so much homework” or “If only I had better friends”. Everything in my life was right, so I must be what was wrong.
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Once I made that realization, life became a lot easier. I had identified the problem, and I was ready to solve it. Armed with a counselor I trusted and a supportive family, I tackled depression head-on. And it seemed to work. The 10mg of Prozac balanced out my brain, and senior year was the best year of my life. I was able to write in-class essays again. I started out getting B’s, and a few months into my medication, I started getting A’s, and I kept getting A’s for the rest of the year. New Year’s rolled around, and I had enough self-confidence to cut off all my hair and go vegan. I spoke to my church about my struggle with depression, and how I had conquered it, and I shared my story with close friends. I was just so thrilled to be living again, instead of just struggling to function.
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That best year of my life ended, and was followed by the best summer of my life, and then the exciting-scary transition into college. I flew a few states away from home. I bonded with my roommate almost immediately, and by the end of first quarter, I had established a few strong friendships that I felt sure would last a lifetime. I made it through that first quarter on autopilot, trusting that the emotional numbness and disconnect I was feeling was just normal, college freshman loneliness. I had never been away from my family for so long. I missed Joseph like crazy. Obviously I was just in a new place, and I needed to give myself time to adjust.
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Skip to mid-January. My class is researching a project in the library. I walk over to a friend who is scanning the internet, and I sink down onto the floor next to him. I don’t even try to contain the tears that are pouring down my cheeks as I cry silently. I don’t say anything, I just sit there. Within a few seconds, he notices and sits down beside me. I remember seeing the new kid in class walk over, and I couldn’t help but think that I was making a terrible first impression, but he just plopped down on the floor beside us, wrapped his arms around me, and told me that everything was going to be ok.
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It didn’t get much better from there. I tried to cry it out in my dorm room, but the tears just would not stop flowing. When I finally ran out of both Kleenex and toilet paper, I left my room, and went back to class. I managed to stop crying long enough to ask my professor if I could speak to her in private. As soon as the door shut behind us, I started crying again. I managed to hiccup out a few sentences about depression. Clearly, I freaked her out. She called the counseling office for me, and made arrangements for one of my other professors to take me to Urgent Care. It was sweet, but rather silly, I thought, because depression isn’t something you can get fixed during one trip to the hospital. But I was helpless, so I let her help me, and eventually it was decided that I needed a higher dosage of Prozac.
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That must have helped a little bit, but looking back, I’m not sure if it was ever enough. A brief, joyful reunion in June with friends and family was followed by a long, numb summer. Painful separation and complicated relationships from those months make it difficult for me to say whether I was clinically depressed, or just coping with life. When Joey and I broke up, I felt like I was released from a long, painful struggle, and I gave myself permission to take care of myself. I made an extensive plan that outlined everything I needed to do, for my own emotional health. I was ready to take care of myself.
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Skip to mid-October. For the first time in my life, I was having suicidal thoughts. I didn’t succumb immediately, because I arranged to have my darling brother sent up for a weekend of fun. I pulled myself together in order to have a good time with him. And I did manage to have a good time, but a week after he left, I was right back where I’d been: looking up whether or not an overdose of antidepressants is enough to kill someone, and crying for hours alone in my bed.
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I wish I could tell you that I’m cured. I wish I could outline all the steps I’ve gone through to take care of myself, and all of the ways that my life is so much better, now that I’ve done a, b, and c. But I can’t. I have a whole laundry list of ways I am attempting to cope with depression, and I’d be happy to share them if anyone is interested, but I don’t think that I’ll ever be cured.
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We’ve reached now. You know how I know that we’ve reached now? I’m starting to cry. Up until now, I’ve been writing about the past, but suddenly I’ve hit the present, and it’s a really scary place. I’m scared that I’m broken beyond repair. I’m scared that I’ll never stop wondering if life is worth living. I’m scared of how hard I have to work just to pretend to be functional. I’m scared of hurting the people who love me, because I have so much sadness and anger inside. I’ve grabbed my inner demon by the horns, and looked into his eyes, and I am terrified of what I’ve seen.
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I don’t want your pity. I suppose sympathy is okay, but mostly, I want understanding. I want you to understand that I am doing my best, even when I’m doing the bare minimum. The best thing you can do for me is read up on depression. Just google it, and read a few paragraphs, and you’ll know so much more than most people. I’m tired of the stigma against depression. I’m tired of worrying about how people will react, of feeling like I have to explain myself every time someone finds out that I take antidepressants. Going back to my senior year of high school, my counselor helped convince me to take medication using the following analogy: if you were diabetic, would you hesitate to take insulin? Of course not. Bear with me now. If I were diabetic, it wouldn’t be that difficult for me to tell my roommates, and tell my professors. If I had cancer, and had to miss class due to chemotherapy, I wouldn’t hesitate to send them an email letting them know, and they would understand. However, if I sleep through class because my intense insomnia kept me up for forty-eight hours and I physically could not get out of bed, I can’t just send an email saying, “Oh, sorry, the depression was acting up. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to come to class tomorrow!”
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I’m really tired of having to explain myself. So this is my explanation to the world. I’m fighting against the stifling silence our society has around depression. I’m fighting against the shame I feel every day when I can’t get through “normal” tasks. I’m fighting against the guilt I feel for not being able to enjoy my many blessings. I’m fighting against the blank stares I’ve received when I tell someone that I am suicidal. Now that I’m back on my feet, I’m fighting against an ignorant society, so that when I get knocked down, I’ll have a community to catch me.
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If anyone has any questions, I am open to them. The only way to break down the myths and stigmas is to face them, and I love nothing more than helping enlighten people as to the nature of depression. And I’d love to talk about how people can help those who are depressed. And I’d love to talk to anyone who is feeling depressed, because I’ve been there and I know a lot about what to do. Basically, I don’t want any more silence. I want us to all talk about it.
Email me: chloelynndancer@gmail.com
Poetry and Hums 