Every so often, Iāll have a week where it seems as if my coworkers hate me. Later that same week, my husband will start eyeing me in that way that convinces me heās desperate to divorce me. My friends wonāt call ā a sure sign that they absolutely cannot stand me. And it isnāt just people turning against me ā itās dinner, scorched in the oven; the latch on the window that snaps off in my hand as I hurry to let the smoke from the oven escape. Itās the spot on my favorite pants, rendering them unwearable.
For some reason, it will escape me that all this avalanche of yuck just happens to be occurring all at the same time. The coincidence of this will be entirely lost on me. Instead, Iāll explain it by blaming it on how utterly unlovable and inept I am.
That is what my relationship with depression looks like. Only after many days of misery, crying at my desk, feeling like a complete failure, will it dawn on me: Oh. Yes. I suffer from depression.
Iāve worked hard over many decades to manage these waves of despair: talk therapy, meds, more talk therapy. But that doesnāt mean Iām cured. I will always struggle with depression. But Iāve done away with saying, āIām depressed.ā At times, depression has defined me, but Iām trying my hardest not to let it anymore. Sure, sometimes it comes to stay like an unwanted house guest, but I know that if I want it to leave, I need to get up (even if I donāt wanna) and put on my shoes (even if they make my feel look big) and kick it to the curb (having big feet makes kicking a little easier! See? Iām feeling better already.)
The strange irony of depression is the feeling of loneliness that afflicts its sufferers. But the World Health Organization reports that approximately 280 million people worldwide suffer from some type of depression. We belong to a giant global club that none of us want to be in. I would gladly rip up my membership card if given the chance.
Iām writing these words for myself, but Iām also writing to the person who feels lonely and unlovable right now. Iām writing to the person burrowed under quilts, facing away from the window. This might be the day that answering your phone or reading a text is too much. Making a decision, even a small one, might feel too overwhelming.
Thatās me. Not every day, but some days. This is only temporary. Depression might cover you with its dark veil, but underneath that, you are your smart, wonderful, lovable self. None of that has changedāitās just behind a dark cloud at the moment. Wait. Do something small to take care of yourself. Reach out to someone you trust. Snuggle down in the quilts for a bit if you need to. This is only temporary. The real you is still in there, waiting for the sun to emerge.
