Depression Testimony

How do you talk about depression? How do you share what it's like? I've been meaning to try something like this for several weeks. There are lots of testimonies online. Many are scarier. Many are more revealing. Many are better written. Many are more detailed. This, well, this is my story. It's a tale of the recent past. It's not my tale in total; there are parts before I keep in pectore, and parts others have asked me not to reveal. I write, as with the rest of this site, to illuminate. Right now, my email signature comes from Tolkien, Gimli I think, that "faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens." If you want a well-lit road, I suggest somewhere else. I also don't look for faith from my readers, so turning back now is understandable. There are lots of other pages on this site.

There's this urban myth that some Alaskan language has like 60 words to describe snow, since it's such a common occurrence. I wanted to invent words for tears, as it'd make it simpler to describe and record. There are tears of despair, tears of personal sadness, tears of transference, tears of failure, tears of bitter pain, tears of fatigue, tears of physical pain. That's what, seven categories? This would be a lot easier with dedicated terms, or maybe a numbering system. Then I could write down "July 4, number 3 for 15 minutes, number 4 for 5" and save myself some trouble.

Have you ever cried for an hour? In some ways, it's a little strange to think that tear ducts could shed that much water. And you're so thirsty afterwards. I've done it more than once. I'm one of the few people that still carries a handkerchief, almost all the time, in fact. If you blow your nose a few times, the face gets red, and crying looks a little like a cold. Plus your nose gets stuffy, in general. I guess I'm lucky, that I don't reapply mascara or makeup, as that just wouldn't be possible.

Have you had insomnia? The first week isn't that bad, actually; in some ways, it's a little helpful. Being up late means more time, for more homework, more musings, more prayer. After a while though, things start to hurt. I'm sure some scientist somewhere has documented the effects, but I don't need to read them. Parts get numb after a couple weeks. For me, at least, about a month short two or three hours per night brings the real problems. Then I have coughing fits in the shower in the morning. I can't eat large meals, because the coughing starts from the effort. The leg pain is probably worst, though; they're just so tired. You know the day after you played football for three hours? That, every day, they never rest. Getting to work is painful, since it's walking. I began to hate the new Mass rules, because of the kneeling. Getting down and up is so painful, I have to grab the chair for assistance. I hope nobody notices the expression of my face, every time we stand.

Have you hated yourself? Likely you have, some day where you managed to screw up the project at work, or broke up with your girlfriend, or said the wrong thing with your parents. I mean over weeks. Could you think of yourself as the least beautiful person on earth? Maybe invent a little song? Did you think of predestination, and decide yourself too lost to be saved, that mercy applies only to everyone else? I had an argument with someone about fasting, where he wondered why I'm so angry about it. When you have internal debate about whipping, or not eating because you don't deserve food, you learn quickly to run screaming from any thoughts of self-mutiliation. Let me be very clear here; I don't do those kinds of things. I've never gone with the self-damage approach. Nevertheless, it's not very far from my mind. You might ask about the big form, total self-immolation, here. I'm not suicidal this time. Let's leave it at that.

Have you been lonely and lost? Again, from time to time, of course. There's always that Friday night when everyone's away, or with their S.O., or the kids are down the street and the wife's down at the church. Maybe you wanted to crawl under the covers and stay away from everyone. But did you do it again? Did you consider pillows on your couch because the regular bed, ten steps away, seemed so far? Wind up laying there, completely under a blanket to not face the world? Watching television takes effort. Better to form a little fortress, for nobody wants you. Then stay there. The fact that somebody says hello is out of sheer courtesy, or maybe they're your student, or you did something good for them. No one's interested in my day. The idea of some girl returning my emails, or thinking about going out with me, is just incredible. Just a fluke.

The feelings don't just jump you like someone in the alleyway behind a bar, so if you had just taken the other route to your car, you would be safe. No, they slink in like a weed in a garden. At first, it's just a little sadness, a little bit more fatigue. That's nothing; it's winter, very cold and bleak. Or there's a winter flu involved, physical illness for a week, and then you're a little behind. It's four or six weeks before the juggling gets hard. Maybe you miss a lecture because of moroseness, but it's only a lecture, and you've cover for friends, so you can borrow the notes. Or an extra sick day at work. Bailing on one night with friends because you're not up to it; no big deal, right?

The tears begin, but there's always a reason. The Hurt video describes the song so truthfully that the guy at the card shop remarks about it, so that's expected. You listen to a friend dealing with her father's death, and it's not right to be emotionless then. As the weeks traverse, the excuses keep getting flimsier. Gilmore Girls is a really great show, but you don't need to be crying at the end of it. I absorbed the hurts and pains of the students, and the people around me. There's the teetering point, where I'm constantly on the verge of a massive breakdown, fleeing from everyone that might be helpful (since I might embarass or hurt them), sort of waiting and trying to avoid a spectacle. Being naturally private helps; I'm still not sure if the people in my office know. Hiding's important, because not only do I deal with despair and self-loathing, there's the added sense of shame. Was it my sins, or the sins of my parents, that made me depressed? Though John 9 suggests otherwise, I was guessing mine.

Then it comes, the first long cry. This time, I did it after the Mass, prostrate on the floor of the chapel. Thank goodness for the new carpet; it's new, and therefore soft and less painful. Looking back now, I think I did pretty well on recognition. I whispered it to someone the first week, but then tried self-treatment for a couple more. I wish I had the nerve to talk to my pastor after the fish fry, when I was scrubbing pots to try to gain stability. But that night I started talking to people. It was fortunate that my brother was in town that weekend. His counsel is purer, because it's from blood and not from my actions. I didn't do anything to get him to speak with me; relatives are not conditional.

If you've managed to make it this far - and I can understand if you ran off to go watch fireflies or something - I'm going to turn into my head next, and look at my pillars, Hope and Worth. More precisely, it'll be an intellectual attack on why I lose them, with the idea that by writing I gain my own illumination. I march forward into the bleak night, looking at hope and worth.

Written July 15, 2004.