Living With Depression

There’s that old commercial for depression medication that shows a cartoon woman being followed around by a great, gray cloud. This is what depression feels like, the commercial posits. But I don’t think that’s right—at least not for me. Depression is an anvil strung to each of my limbs, my brain, my soul. Its weight is so heavy that at times I feel as though I physically cannot take another step. Its pull is so strong that when I try and sit up out of bed, I am working against gravity. Its force is stronger than almost all the will I have, and the only reason I say almost is because I have not yet ended my life. If that day comes, the anchor tied like a noose around my neck will settle firmly into the earth. I pray each day for survival.

I am in the midst of one of the worst and longest depressions of my life. Two months and counting. I have tried changing my medication, adding new pills, increasing dosages, the beads of the abacus moving from side to side. It has not worked. Today, my psychiatrist suggested ECT—electroshock therapy. All I could envision was what you’re envisioning now: those images from the 60s where a patient is strapped to a bed, eyes rolling back in his head as his body seizes and convulses at 60 second intervals. Yikes. Have I really gotten to that point?

Yes.

I don’t like to get out of bed these days; can barely make it into work. While at work, I stare at my computer screen and cry silently—for what, I don’t know. But what’s wrong, my family asks me. There is nothing wrong and there is everything wrong. What’s wrong is that there are too many dishes in the sink. What’s wrong is that I am required to take the dog on a walk. What’s wrong is that there is no napkin nearby as I’m eating frozen blueberries (the only thing left in the refrigerator) with my fingers so I wipe my hand on the wifebeater I’m wearing. What’s wrong is that my brain is broken. What’s wrong is that something went wrong when the synapses were coming together or the molecules were forming or the cells were conversing with one another at that critical moment when a human was being made. This human.

Things were very bad and my dad had to fly out to stay with me for a few days. My brother called him and told him he should go. So did my best friend. I had told him not to, but I was grateful he was there. He wanted to problem solve but I didn’t know what the problem was. He forced me to stay awake past 8:30 p.m. and we played backgammon or talked about articles. We ate breakfast at the diner on the corner every morning and talked about nothing in particular. One morning, he got a call from my grandmother, whose calls I had been avoiding, just like I’d been avoiding everyone else’s calls. He handed the phone to me to say hello to her, and I did and she was glad to hear from me but got off the phone quickly. She got off the phone quickly, I said to my dad. Because she was crying, he said. There’s shame in wiping your dirty hands on your clothes but there’s no shame like the shame of bringing your grandmother to tears.

I think they’re all sort of secretly waiting for bad news. The really bad news. That’s why they get so squirrely when they don’t hear from me for several days. I don’t blame them, and yet, I do little, if anything, to try and soothe their worry.

My therapist is trying so hard. I feel bad for her. So are my friends. And of course my family. But nothing you say will help me or make a difference. The words of solace, the advice, the attempts at being comforting or empathetic—meaningless. And then I just feel bad because there I am, nodding my head at the puffs of air coming out of their mouths, all the while wishing they would stop.

My brother texts me a quote that tells how if someone had diabetes and was in pain, we as a society wouldn’t tell them to “get it together,” so why should we treat someone with depression that way? The stigma is decreasing, yes, but it’s still there. At work, when casually asked how I’m doing that day, I can’t say that A) I could barely crawl out of bed and I feel hopeless, but I could say B) my arthritis had flared up and was causing me some joint pain. How would you respond to answer A? We are not that evolved.

I have depression and my internal monologue still chastises myself for being lazy or just to snap out of it or to stop being such a whiny brat. I am not kind to myself because no matter what I am told, what I read, how much treatment I get, I still see my depression as a failure of character. If I were stronger, I wouldn’t spontaneously cry in grocery stores. If I were smarter, I could best this beast.

I don’t want to admit that I have a disease.

But I do.

And all I can do is wake up every day. Just wake up and that’s something. And something is better than nothing.