4 Weeks & Change

I’ve been in a depression hole for about 3 weeks. Maybe 4. I’m not willing to call it “a month” yet, because, well… that’s depressing. I used to be a lot more open and honest about my depression spells, but as much as vulnerability and honesty are the rage these days, it’s just not what people want to hear. Not unless it’s tied to a valid reason, like the loss of a job, a death in the family, or the regret of getting bangs. When you actually have depression, on a clinical level, somehow the whimsy of having a blue period fades and you just become annoying to the people near and dear to you. Hey there, bummer!

So you get a therapist—a talk therapist as well as the kind that prescribes you happy candies. And you keep moving. You get dressed, brush your hair, avoid eye contact in the mirror, lest you look deep into your soulless pupils and see that these acts simply remind you of how robotic life has become. Nope. Can’t have that! No eye contact.

You make plans, and you also make sure to stress about them up until you’re ringing the doorbell and forcing your cheeks to part like the sea, bearing clenched teeth and a tongue swelling to what feels like the size of a cucumber.

You go through the motions. Your husband asks “what’s wrong” to the point where he’s become your sundial. Morning. Noon. Night. Middle of the night. Of course, you feel guilt. Guilty that the drapes never seem to lift. There is so much guilt.

The talk therapist tells you that you’re doing well, completing all of her exercises. The other therapist decides not to raise your happy candies. He says you seem to be doing better. But you’re not doing better. You’re just good at pretending… high functioning, they call it. You think of mentioning this, but for the moment, it feels good to be good at something, doesn’t it?

So, I’m here. Doing what I can to not fully withdraw from my family, friends, and routine. They ask why I’ve been quiet, and I tell them I’ve just been busy, the blanket statement for “stuff you don’t want to hear about but will accept as a form of payment for my lack of showing up.” They don’t want to hear about my depression. And neither do I! It’s exhausting, repetitive, and grates against anything remotely resembling a good day.

So I’ll go pick up the groceries and some paper plates for that birthday party on Sunday. I’ll respond to that text about that group trip, those plane tickets. I’ll operate the robot that people seem to enjoy much more so than the furious stirrer, pacing back and forth behind the controls.

It’s been a month. Much too long for a self-indulgent pity party. Much too long to be a cry for attention. Much too long to be anything other than what it is: clinical depression. I understand it is hard to love someone like this, which is why I don’t expect it. I don’t even want it.

But I know this wave will crash and my body will roll onto the shore. And I’ll be able to do what other people seem able to do so effortlessly. Maybe I’ll be fun to be around. Or maybe I’ll start conversations on interesting topics or take a new class, because I’ve found I’m actually interested in something. Or maybe it’ll get even worse and I’ll stop eating, get that beach body I’ve been wanting. Wouldn’t that be something? My depression always seems to let up right before that part.

Am I looking for advice? No. I’m just sharing what it feels like to live with this…this thing. I don’t even hate it. It’s just not socially acceptable, which makes living somewhat difficult. But don’t forget— I’m high functioning. Thank god, right?