Depression is a funny thing. And when I say funny, I mean
the furthest thing from. For me it presents as a silent, vile, soul-sucking,
dream-stealing demon that I’m unable to see until it’s devoured everything that
makes me happy.
You know those profile details you put on every social media
account that lists your interests. Think of your top three. Do they make you
smile? Mine do. They are reading, writing, and art. Not always in that order,
but always in the top three. Now imagine if every time you thought about one of
those top three things, instead of a smile it brought out feelings of anger,
hatred, disgust, sadness, and guilt.
That’s the true face of depression for me. It snuck up on me
gradually, disguising itself as stress, exhaustion, sickness, and boredom. For
months it crawled through my inner joy and took little bites with venomous
teeth until one day I found myself staring out the window for hours,
floundering in the realization that there was nothing in the world I wanted to
do. Had I ever liked to do anything? I didn’t want to read. The very thought
made me exhausted. I didn’t want to paint, draw, refinish furniture, or
crochet. Worst of all, I didn’t want to write. I hated the idea of putting
words down. I even despised the characters in my manuscripts that I had once
loved so much. Writing? No. Never again.
I confessed this to a friend, thinking that perhaps my
interest in writing had just waned. Perhaps I never was a writer and this
passing fad was now done. “Do you mean, like, forever?!” she asked. And I
really believed this was the case.
Motivational memes and happy writers on Facebook and Twitter
only made me feel worse. “Have you written today?” “4000 words and counting!”
And worst of all, “Writers write even when they don’t want to!”
Well I didn’t want to. I wasn’t even sure how I ever had! I
hated it! Hated them all! Those annoying, prolific, happy writers, so cocky and
confident that their loves and talents would always be there. Didn’t they know
that talent was fleeting? That at any moment it could be ripped away, trampled
on the ground. Unbearable jerks, all of them.
I’ve suffered with depression before. Written through it.
Infused the dark feelings and sadness into my manuscripts to great effect. This
round of depression socked me so hard I was certain I never see light again. I
would never read. I would never write. And I would never again create beautiful
art. That part of my life was over. All I could do was survive.
You’ll be happy to note the word “was” in the previous
paragraph. Today I feel better. The sun is shining the rich scent of cut grass
and a first cutting of alfalfa is in the air, and I got to take my doggies to
the dog park. I was able to smile even when they annoyed me, and I felt
lightness on my shoulders for the first time in months. Perhaps I could write
again.
My marker for how well I’m feeling has been my writing, and
obviously I’m once again putting words to the page. It’s been a long, slow,
uphill battle. I have had many small victories and large steps backward. I’ve
had to come to some surprising realizations about depression and who I am as a
person.
Present me with a physical enemy and I’ll slice and dice the
bastard with a great deal of bloodthirsty delight rather than let him take one inch.
But this subtle monster, this thing called depression, knows me. It knows what to target that will cause me the most pain.
It knows where to stab, what to whisper, and how to settle deep into my mind
without me suspecting a thing until it’s almost too late.
I am not writing this post to teach about depression, preach
about mental health, or ask for sympathy. I am simply putting words to a page
in an all out assault against the monster who tried to steal my life. I see you
now. I know who you are and I’ll be damned before I let you take one more inch.
