Yes, with a capital "D". For me, it's always a proper noun, an annoying, overbearing, hypercritical friend I can never quit, whose presence I just accept. But, see, even that metaphor isn't quite right. Even annoying, overbearing friends aren't a constant presence in my life. I can walk away from them, avoid their texts or phone calls. In short, with real people, I can escape.
Depression is more than that. It's a feeling of being trapped in a windowless, doorless room with that annoying, overbearing, hypercritical friend. No chance for escape. Not even the prospect of murder can help because it's an immortal friend you're stuck with. He will never die. Like a terrifying, yet comically perverse zombie, strike him down and he will rise from the dead to remind me how much I suck as a human being and that everyone I know hates me.
There's probably some deeper, subconscious meaning behind my imagining Depression as a man. I'm sure Freud and Lacan, those specters flitting around my mind, have something to say about the super-ego's voice being that of the Father (for those uninitiated in Freud and Lacan, they mean the dominant social voice that determines what's acceptable and unacceptable in society; in a patriarchal society, that voice is male, hence "Father"). But that discussion would be enough for another post. So, I'll save those ideas for another blog entry.
On a superficial level, I imagine Depression being male because I identify as male. In fact, for me, Depression is my negative self, reflected and enlarged, like a funhouse mirror, but without the fun. He's a constant critic in my life, always trying to convince me that I'm worthless and unloved. Of course, the practical and hopeful parts of my mind--the parts that reason pretty well, I think--have plenty of evidence and powerful logic behind their arguments. Depression's evidence is questionable, but that doesn't really matter; Depression doesn't use traditional logic. Through brute force and relentless screaming, he wears me down until I can do nothing but agree. His arguments aren't convincing, even at that point. I just want the screaming to stop.
Thing is, it doesn't. Never has, never will.
Even when others tell me how much I'm loved and wanted, he's there to shout them down. Worse still, I get to the point where I don't want to hear that I'm loved and wanted because his voice gets louder. Depression feeds on those statements, growing larger and larger. He fills up the room we're trapped in with his increasing rotundity. In depression's logic, the loving and encouraging statements from family and friends reinforce Depression's arguments that I'm unworthy of love. With each word, his argument is strengthened. And all I can say, weakly, is "Stop, stop, stop." He doesn't.
Depression uses a logic with its own set of self-serving rules. Well-intended statements like "You have so much to live for" are neutered in an argument with Depression. Through an impressive feat of rhetorical gymnastics, Depression convincingly says, "See how worthless and selfish you are? You can't even recognize how good you've got it. These 'friends' and 'loved ones' don't deserve you. Pathetic."
I don't think it's a coincidence that I imagine Depression torturing me. Though he's not physically tearing my body apart, he's attacking my mind, shredding my identity and everything I love until nothing remains. Who needs an outside torturer, when my mind does all the heavy-lifting? Elaine Scarry, in her wonderful book, The Body in Pain, provides an extensive analysis of torture and its relationship to political power. Scarry focuses on the logical structure of torture and how it informs and strengthens those in power. And so, at first, it may not appear that her analysis fits, or is even appropriate, for a discussion of depression, but I think that the two experiences resonate on similar frequencies:
In its basic outlines, torture is the inversion of a trial, a reversal of cause and effect. While the one studies evidence that may lead to a punishment, the other uses punishment to generate the evidence. (Scarry 41)"The inversion of a trial" and using "punishment to generate evidence" are fitting descriptions of depression's most insidious effects. Depression needs no trial because he already knows what he wants. All he needs to do is punish me enough to produce the desired results. With enough work, he can create the evidence needed for me to believe that he is right, that he has been right the whole time.
Although comparing depression to the horror of torture sounds like an exaggeration, it's not. Just a different form of horror. A horror inflicted on the self. Depression is a horror film I cannot escape, to use a different metaphor. The metaphors for depression are legion, after all. In my theater, like the locked room above, I'm trapped. There's no leaving when things get to be too much. Everywhere I go--work, school, home, to dinner and drinks with friends--Depression is there with me. Sometimes he's quiet, allowing me some space to breathe, think, enjoy life. Sometimes he's screaming so loud I can only stare into the distance, incapable of focusing on anything or anyone. Mine may not be the kind of depression that straps me down in bed for days on end, but my depression transforms me into the walking dead: functioning but not present.
Even with all the evidence to the contrary, Depression causes me to mistrust my own observations. Depression is so convincing that I've often found myself sitting amongst friends, having a good time, and yet still thinking, "They all look like they're waiting for me to leave so the real fun can start." He has buried seeds of doubt and nurtured them so well, that I rarely trust what I see and experience. Questions flood my mind, overcrowding and suppressing more rational logical thinking: Am I misreading the situation? Are they just humoring me because I arrived attached to someone that they like better? Depression says, "Yes," and I'm persuaded.
To bypass the energy-sucking experience of battling Depression's persuasive arguments, I avoid the situation, isolate myself from family and friends. Logically, this is a stupid move. According to every specialist, isolation only makes things worse. Even the most ascoial human being needs some form of companionship. But, again, Depression doesn't rely on logic. To him, the specialists have no authority. Depression's credibility is the only credibility that matters, and his arguments quickly strip down the specialists' well-researched, rational arguments. For him, it's easy. After all, he's had plenty of practice stripping down my own well-researched, rational arguments.
Depression forces me into isolation, but only so that he can break me down, force me into thinking that I don't exist. Against, Depression's onslaught, I am no match. Not without help, that is. I need to feel like I'm present, like I'm real. For me, nothing is more terrifying than questioning my own reality, my own physical presence. And that's exactly what Depression does to me. Give him enough time, and I'll start thinking I don't deserve to exist, that I don't exist.
The lyrics of the Tony-Award-wining musical, Dear Evan Hansen, capture these complex and conflicting emotions well, particularly in the songs that reflect my own experiences with depression: "For Forever" and "Words Fail."
In Dear Evan Hansen, Evan has recently broken his arm after falling out of a tree, and so he's wearing a cast at the start of the play. When the play starts, Evan is starting another year of school. Connor, one of Evan's fellow students, starts the same day. Unlike Evan, who retreats inside himself, Connor rebels against his family. At school, Evan and Connor bump into each other, which results in Connor pocketing a letter Evan had written to himself. The letter is part of Evan's therapy to overcome depression and social anxiety. Later, Connor commits suicide, and school officials find the letter. Because he doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, Evan lies and confirms the officials' conclusion that Evan and Connor had been best friends. The rest of the musical follows the consequences of Evan's lie.
I understand the desire to lie. I lie all the time, mostly to avoid conflict or to avoid stating uncomfortable truths that upset the clockwork machinery of the day.
Random person: "How're you today?"
Me: "Oh, I'm fine."
I'm rarely "fine," but saying "I'm fine" is better than launching into an hour-long explanation of how I'm feeling. Who wants to hear about all that? Most people don't. It's too much to process for me, so I lie to spare others the details of my sad life.
Moreover, I understand the desire to fall into fantasy. Part of Evan's motivation for lying is the desperate desire for friendship, to connect with others, which is something he and I find difficult to do. We just can't seem to find a comfortable spot to dive into other people's lives. Creating our own fantasy worlds--where communicating is effortless and seems rewarding--is easier than dealing with real people.
I cried the first time I'd heard "For Forever" because I recognized that yearning. At this point in the story, Evan is having dinner with Connor's family, and his mother asks about their friendship. Evan starts inventing on the spot, creating a friendship from nothing. And in that creation, he retells the story of how he broke his arm. In the new version, Evan is describing a carefree day with his best friend that culminates in both boys climbing a tree. Evan sings,
And I suddenly feel the branch give way
I'm on the ground
My arm goes numb
I look around
And I see him come to get me
He comes to get me
And everything's okay
Evan's recounting of the story is true except for one fact: He was alone when he broke his arm. No one came to get him. In truth, on that day, Evan had been suicidal. He wanted to die.
Retelling the story is Evan's opportunity to wipe away reality, to create a better version of the story, one where he wasn't broken and alone. Despite the fictional nature of the new memory, it does offer Evan the opportunity to feel something he didn't that day: connection. To feel that someone was there to lift him up when he was at his lowest. Because the fictional world can be better than the real one, it's understandable that Evan would want to supplant reality with this fantasy. Is Evan's choice commendable or ethical? No. The real-world consequences are--though the musical doesn't explore this--devastating, and Evan's lies are motivated by selfish desires. Still, I get it.
The musical climaxes with the powerful song "Words Fail." Finally, the truth comes out, and Evan has to explain himself. He can't. Not really.
I guess I wanted to believe
'Cause if I just believe
Then I don't have to see what's really there
No, I'd rather pretend I'm something better than
These broken parts
Pretend I'm something other than
This mess that I am
'Cause then I don't have to look at it
And no one gets to look at it
No, no one can really see
'Cause I've learned to slam on the brake
Before I even turn the key
Before I make the mistake
Before I lead with the worst of me
I never let them see the worst of me
'Cause what if everyone saw?
What if everyone knew?
Would they like what they saw?
Or would they hate it too?
Many times I've felt like I was pretending to be fun and gregarious because I was too afraid for people to see the real me, afraid that I'd be rejected.
The sad thing is, people like Evan and myself have been rejected. Not maybe in the sense that we've been completely ostracized in society, but in the fact that at some point we expressed our true selves only to be rejected in some way. For people like us, those moments have a powerful effect. One rejection means I probably won't open up like that again in front of that person. The risk of being rejected again is just too painful, so I shut down.
That's Depression talking again, making me think that people don't want to hear me, that they aren't interested enough in the real me hidden beneath layers upon layers of psychological shielding. In reality, the context was wrong, inappropriate. In reality, there's a reasonable explanation for the rejection. But, again, Depression's logic twists reality until all I see is the rejection.
Evan's recreated memory reveals the desire in my--and I suspect other's--experiences with depression. We need to feel connected, like we're being heard and understood, that someone cares enough to reach out and pick us up when we're broken and alone. The simple act of reaching out, even something as small as a "Hi. How're you?" can be powerful in combating depression. Acts like that make it harder for Depression to convince me that no one cares; it makes it more difficult for him to convince me that I don't exist. As such, in my experience, acts are more powerful opponents in the fight against Depression. More powerful than empty platitudes at any rate.
As a student of rhetoric and language, I know--and so does Depression--that language isn't always trustworthy. The words that spill out of people's mouths are unreliable. And so, they are easily swept aside, their meanings twisted into wildly inaccurate representations. Statements alone open the door for Depression to say, "They're lying. Where's the proof?" Acts are harder for him to shout against, harder for him to twist because they are visual proof of a connection, of care.
A few months ago, I ventured out to a local bar to meet friends. By myself. Which is a rare achievement because of the days/weeks of "building myself up" that have to occur before I can do something as simple as walk out my front door alone. On this occasion, I did venture out into the real world. I walked about a little over a block and met up with a good friend I knew would be there.
At first, we chatted. Then, as the night wore on, more and more friends arrived, and, as expected, the bar grew louder and louder. So loud, in fact, that I couldn't follow conversations. Slowly, because I was sitting on a stool--but still turned to face people, not away from them--these friends started grouping together, coalescing into conversational cliques. And I was left out.
This is not their fault. I'm a quiet person who doesn't forcefully insert myself into conversations very often, not unless I have something to add. Most of the time, I can't think of anything fast enough, so I remain quiet. Sometimes I'm very talkative, but those moments are rare, and they usually occur only when I know the topic well and have thought out what I want to say beforehand. If I haven't thought out a response beforehand, I won't say much.
And so, once again, I found myself outside of the conversation, looking at people's backs, unable to hear a word of what they were saying despite being crammed within the same five-foot circle of space. After some time passed, when I realized that I wouldn't be able to participate, I turned away from the laughing/talking groups and watched the music videos playing on the television screen in front of me.
Just when I was thinking of paying my tab and leaving--Why stick around if I'm going to be ignored?--a friend spoke to me. "You're feeling anxious, aren't you?"
First, I was surprised because this particular friend isn't known for his thoughtfulness, at least not from what I had observed up to that point (he can be quite harsh in his criticisms of others). He then chatted with me for a bit and tried to include me in on one of the conversations happening around me.
I never told him, but that was the kindest thing for him to do at that moment. As as a result, I stuck around the bar longer than I would've if he hadn't spoken up.
I've been moved most often by people who recognize my discomfort in a situation, who reach out to me and bring me into the conversation. It feels like I'm getting permission to feel included. Since it's difficult for me to press myself into a conversation, it's nice when someone takes a moment to include me. Even when my friend stepped away, that small gesture--a mere minute of conversation--sustained me for a couple more hours. It was kind. And I needed kindness in that moment. I won't forget it.
But placing the onus of lifting me from the suffocating pit of depression on my family and loved ones puts all the burden on them. I need to work harder to reach out, too. And that's probably the most difficult part, at least for me. Still, I must remind myself that maintaining a presence in the lives of my family and friends isn't burdening them, despite what Depression says. Pushing myself into people's lives isn't a sign of unwanted aggression--which is how Depression describes it. It's just the norm for building relationships.
In the end, just like I'm sure people reading this wish (that's Depression speaking through me), I just need to stop thinking and act. Acts are effective techniques to make a shy, depressed person feel included. They build relationships better than words. Caring acts are the weapons we need to fight depression, to fight the ever-growing thoughts of suicide that plague so many, myself included.
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