It’s a slow process, this growing awareness of and education about the truth of depression. It’s still hard for many to admit even to those closest to them, never mind absolute strangers, that they suffer from depression. It’s still misunderstood as something that’s “just in their heads,” or dismissed as “melodramatic attention-seeking.” But that first rock was loosened and now the pebbles are falling, picking up momentum, and that gives me hope.
I have fought an on-going war against depression for most of my life. Even when I’m “winning” it’s never very far away. This nebulous, gigantic, hateful monster that follows me around like a second shadow, feeding on every doubt and insecurity, amplifying and enlarging them before spewing them back at me, just waiting for a chance to fully sink its claws back into me once again.
At my absolute worst, I have entertained thoughts of suicide. Formulated plans for how best to go about it so that I wouldn’t be found in time to be saved. I stood at the edge of that mental chasm, looked down into oblivion and was tempted to take that final step, over and over and over again. But somehow, even during the darkest times, there was a hand on my shoulder and a voice that whispered, sometimes so quietly that I could barely hear it, but always there and always insistent: ‘Don’t go. There are people who need you.’
‘LIES!’ the monster would shout, urging me to give in. To stop fighting. To stop living. If I were truly only an empty shell with nothing to give, nothing in me worth loving, why would anyone miss me? They wouldn’t. But that hand on my shoulder never wavered, nor was that voice ever fully silenced, and for that I remain ever grateful. Call it a Guardian, or an Angel, or the true voice of my heart, or whatever you wish. It was there and I never lost it, never allowed the monster of depression to convince me that it had abandoned me.
There have been many, and undoubtedly will be more, who have not been and will not be so fortunate. This saddens me on a level I cannot even find words to describe; makes my heart ache with the desire to be able to reach out, take their hands, lift them up and say, ‘You have never been alone.’ Even while knowing, having been so close to that chasm myself, that once fully lost one may no longer be capable of reaching back, of allowing themselves to be lifted up, or even of allowing anyone to simply be there until they feel capable of standing again.
Even as a sufferer, I also understand the helplessness of only being able to stand by, waiting, hoping, that a person you love will reach back and take the hand that you’ve had held out to them. The urge to fix the problem is so hard to overcome, even when you know that the absolute best thing you can do is just stand by until the other person is ready. Each situation, each person, is different and needs different things from the people around them. Hard as it is, instead of asking ‘How can I help?’ the best thing to ask is actually ‘What do you need?’ Then give them that, be it space to be alone, or hugs, or a bad movie marathon, or a sob-fest over a pint of ice cream, or whatever. Don’t assume that you know better than them what they need, for in trying to push on them something that they don’t want or can’t cope with, you will only feed the monster instead of strengthening the whisperer.
My most recent battle with my own monster was just last year, and it lasted for months. Rationally, I had prepared myself for using a wheelchair on really bad days, or days that would otherwise be walking/standing intensive. However, accepting something rationally and being prepared for it emotionally are two very different things. That first weekend when I needed my chair was devastating, made only worse by the monster latching onto my self-blame. I’d missed seeing a very small ledge, so instead of stepping off it, my foot met air where I expected floor, and slammed down the remaining inch and a half to hit the actual floor, thus jarring my whole leg. Now, for most people, this type of incident results in an embarrassing stumble that’s laughed off and they go on about their day. For me, well. I played it strong and finished walking around the shopping area with my husband and friends before heading back to the hotel.
I was in agony halfway there. But I clenched my jaw and kept going because I was not going to let this fucking Fibro bullshit win.
I was barely able to hold the tears at bay by the time we were walking up to the hotel doors, couldn’t even stand up straight, and each step felt like I was wading through molten lava. My husband went and got the wheelchair to get me back to our room, despite my protests that ‘I’m fine, dammit! I can make it!’
For the rest of the weekend, I couldn’t walk. I was guilt-ridden because if I’d only been paying attention and seen that stupid ledge, the whole situation could have been avoided. I hated having to depend on my husband and friends for my mobility, and I began to resent them for theirs, which only made me hate myself and feed the depression monster. I managed to hold it at bay for the remainder of the holiday, but my strength only held out until my husband and I returned home.
Once there, I did what I call “turtling.” Mentally and emotionally pulled myself into a shell, hiding from everything and everyone. I barely spoke, ate only when food was put in front of me or I began to shake and feel dizzy, whichever happened first. I lived in my pyjamas and would only change them after a bath, which I usually had to be prodded into taking. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was playing either one of the Mass Effect games, or one of the Dragon Age games. Mainly Mass Effect. According to my Steam account I clocked in somewhere around 300 hours played time on Mass Effect, and hit nearly 400 hours played time on Mass Effect 2. Origin doesn’t tell me how many hours I’ve got clocked in for Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2, and Mass Effect 3 (or if it does, I haven’t found out where, and really, I’m not even sure I want to know).
There were times when I forced myself out of my shell because it was expected, because I felt obligated, but I’d pop right back into it at the first opportunity.
I’d feel guilty for not replying to messages from friends, for not returning my mother’s calls, for hardly even wanting to spend time with my husband. And of course that guilt would only add to the overall depression. Then there was the guilt that I piled on myself. ‘Be happy you can still walk at all; there are those out there who have no legs at all, or only one, or have both but can’t feel or move them. You? All you have to put up with is pain, you sissy.’ And other things along that same vein.
Eventually though, I was able to work through it. I started poking my nose out of my shell more often, and for longer periods of time. I began to interact with the world again. Even if it was just by logging into Facebook and reading status updates. Slowly but steadily, life began to feel like something good again. I could feel happy and only happy, rather than having a constant awareness of the monster’s looming shadow as it just waited to pounce.
I won the battle.
But the war will never end. At least, it’s unlikely to in my lifetime. The more people talk, the more people share, the more people educate themselves and others, the more people study and learn and discover, the more likely it becomes that eventually, we’ll be able to do more than throw medication at depression and hope that it works to keep it in check.
