Depression is a soul-crushing disease. It robs a person of their ability to live life to the fullest. Much like other chronic disorders, it can be invisible to the untrained eye. Much like chronic pain, a person with depression is often left taking medication with barely manageable side effects for their entire life, frequently having to switch medications as the body gets used to the effects of one that was once effective. And much like other chronic disorders, the effects of depression are different for everyone.
I see articles online all the time where one individual speaks of their battle with depression or suicidal thoughts or anxiety or some other mental illness. I see them and wonder, is this person really like me? Do they feel what I feel? In their heart of hearts do they know the daily struggle? The worry? The suffering? Or are they one of those who says “I’m sad therefore I am depressed” and expect sympathy?
I saw one such list recently, the author saying that they wanted to let others know they are not alone. They talked about the struggle to get up early, taking a bath, doing laundry, exercising, reading scriptures, making plans with friends…but there seemed to be…how is this person writing the article a real person?
I feel as though depression has been regulated to a single woman’s thing. That you must fit a certain mold to be able to share that you are depressed with the world. You must be creative, you must be single or in a dating relationship, but not married. You must not have children. You must have a job so flexible that the inability to get out of bed is an option. That is not me.
I am single, but the more correct way of seeing me is divorced. I have kids. Old ones, a teen and a tween. But they were once babies, and I struggled then as I struggle now. I have a job that requires that I come in daily. That requires me to be able to function on a level that leaves no room for myself. And yet, there are days when I cannot see a reason for getting out of bed.
I read an article about a woman who was “letting go” of the label high functioning depression. The gist of the article was that this woman felt she wasn’t giving herself room to have those bad days where she couldn’t function. Oh, that it was that easy. I think about what life would look like if I wasn’t getting out of bed. If I allowed myself to give in to the constant pull of depression.
I had a therapist once tell me that I should celebrate the little things in life. He likened depression to eating spaghetti with weights tied to your arms. You will eat, but every bite will be so much harder than it is for the person sitting next to you without weights, without that pull. You may not finish the plate full, but what you do eat will taste all the much better for having accomplished it. see that analogy works for me. Depression is like eating spaghetti with weights tied to your arms. But it doesn’t taste better. If anything, it leaves you hating life. Leaves you feeling bitter with self-loathing.
In therapy recently (because yes, I’m still going to therapy) I’ve been working through sex and my relationship with it. The why and the details of it are not important. What is though, is that I’ve been able to pinpoint more when I’ve had my seriously deep depressive episodes. It’s those times when I just want to feel something, anything. When I am numb, or when I am feeling such emotional pain that my very body and soul are crying out for comfort and peace. Oh, how would it be if the thing I reached for on those times was safe and healthy.
Photo by Blake Cheek on Unsplash edited by me
studentmamacook 