You know that person,
the one who always feels the need to burst your bubble, to take the
joy out of every fucking thing? We all know someone like that, and
we do our best to avoid them. Depression is a lot like that person,
but as hard as you try, you can’t lose depression’s number, and
you can’t ensure that depression isn’t invited to things.
Depression is always there, making everything in life ugly,
unenjoyable, and meaningless. It’s difficult to describe to someone
who has never suffered clinical depression what it’s like. I
remember thinking, “why don’t those people just get out of the
house, read a book, watch a funny movie, or do this, or do that?”
The naivety of most people who have never suffered from depression
themselves is astounding. People think you just need to cheer up,
and it’s not quite so easy. So here's my experience, or just a
snippet of it, really. So judge me how you may, but I'm going to
choose to be transparent about the dangers and harsh realities of a
major depressive disorder.
Growing up, I was
always made to feel like a burden. I was certainly unplanned, and I
always felt unwanted. Throw on top of that the baggage of thirty
years of life, a fucked up family, a high stress job, and you get a
general feeling of worthlessness. I’ve never been the type of
person to feel like death is the best option, but sometimes, when
you’re in that moment where the pain is so intense, you’d do
anything to make it stop. For me, the moment passes quickly, and
it’s never more than a fleeting thing. This time, however, it was
much worse. It was as though Nigel Tufnel had turned my anxiety up
to eleven. I found myself in downtown San Francisco, standing at an
intersection, thinking about which car looked like it might kill me
the quickest. I had a powerful urge to walk right out into traffic.
I took a step into the gutter, a car honked at me, and I immediately
stepped back up onto the curb. No one around me really noticed, to
them I looked like an impatient pedestrian, waiting for the light to
change.
Living in a major city
is difficult like that. It’s easy to go unnoticed, and the
opportunity to die is everywhere, if you set your mind to it. In that
moment, when I stepped back up onto the curb, some little bit of
sanity took hold of me and shouted, “CALL SOMEONE, CALL ANYONE!”
I pulled out my phone, and with trembling hands I typed out the words
“Feeling kind of suicidal right now.” In less than a minute, my
phone rang. I have never been so happy to hear that sound. I sat on
the sidewalk with my knees to my chest and I sobbed into the phone.
My friend on the other end has been there, and she knew what to do.
Sarah kept me calm, she told me to tell her exactly where I was, and
then she contacted my doctor and another friend who was nearby.
Seemant was there within twenty minutes, and he stayed by my side
while we waited in the ER. My breathing was labored, I had tears
streaming down my face nonstop, and there was a guard at the door to
make sure I didn’t try to kill myself in the hospital room. I had
become that person, the high risk patient who has to be watched by a
fucking guard. I was a crazy person. It was all completely called for
though. I had tried to strangle myself in the backseat of the car on
the way to the hospital. I just wanted the pain to stop, and it
didn’t matter how.
I kept repeating to
myself that I was just being dramatic, and that I just wanted
attention. That was the voice of my mother in my head, though. The
doctors in the ER placed me on a 72 hour psychiatric hold, as I had
expected them to. The goal had been accomplished, to get me
somewhere where I would be safe from myself.
If you’ve never been
in the psych ward of any hospital, it’s quite a bit like you might
imagine. The rooms are bare, with no televisions, no electronics of
any kind really. You know, you could strangle yourself with the
cord. The door to the bathroom is short, so that if necessary,
someone can look in on you, to ensure you’re not lying in the
shower with your wrists slit… not that you find a goddamn thing in
the place sharp enough to do that with. Every thing had been
stripped out, except for two beds that sat low to the floor, and a
bookshelf secured to the wall. That’s it. The room was an expanse
of sad, lonely echoes, and a roommate that I could easily deem to be
just the slightest bit more crazy than myself. The first night was
the hardest. They took my phone away. My immediate reaction was
that these bastards must be sadists who like watching suicidal people
get pushed even further to the brink. They also put the words "adult mental" on my bracelet. That was probably the most alienating part of the experience.
I laid in my bed in the dark,
listening to the snoring stranger next to me. I didn’t sleep at
all, I just lay there, feeling
nothing. The next day, I talked to a psychiatrist, she evaluated me,
and we talked about what led me there. She deemed me to be not crazy
enough to be held for the full 72 hours, and told me I could leave
tomorrow. So I went back to bed, and I watched the rain gather on
the window. I can’t really say what that’s like. I felt
nothing. I was just existing. Seemant and Aaron came to visit in the
afternoon. We mostly sat making small talk for the half hour or so,
and they knew that’s all I needed. I just needed them to be there,
to acknowledge that someone cares. After they left, I had a bit of
energy, so I took my first shower and promptly went back to bed.
They returned during the evening visiting hours and brought me
chocolate, which was promptly confiscated from me. That was the
saddest feeling for me, being treated like a prisoner. However, the
longer evening visiting hours left me feeling much better. I needed
my little chosen family to be present. Matt’s plane landed in San
Francisco, and he took the BART directly to the hospital to meet
everyone there. Aaron and I sat on the couch my head on his
shoulder, with Seemant squeezing my arms. I felt loved, for the
first time in a long time. I suddenly felt like myself. The next
morning, the doctor retrieved me from breakfast to tell me I was most
definitely going home. So here I am writing this.
What gets someone to
this place, walking out into traffic on purpose? It's complicated,
but I'll say this... I'm not crazy, I just buckled under the weight
of stress. I'll also say that in spite of everything, I can
definitively sit here today and say that I have finally met the
people who understand and care for me better than anyone else has
ever been capable. They are my family. You'll never find an
assembly of people more odd and mismatched, but we work. There's the
blue haired lesbian, the Mormon, the little brown guy, me, however
you may classify me, and there's the dramatic, but loveable redhead
and her nerdy husband. Somehow, we've all managed to find one
another, and help each other through the hard times with nothing but
love and understanding. So... Since I have little positive to say
about the struggles I currently find myself in, I'll focus on that.
I am loved, and that's why I'm alive today.
 |
| Note: NOT HELPFUL ADVICE. |
If you know someone who
is depressed, please please please don't tell them to snap out of
it, or get some exercise, or whatever other unhelpful things you may
be inclined to say. Just love them, be there for them, and
understand that there's nothing you can do or say to help, only
things you can do or say to make it worse, and know that depression won't ever leave, it will just come in waves.
