Preface
Since I was a child, my natural inclination has been to share openly – to transparently confess – to process externally via vocal and visual expressions of my truth. I now understand that part of that is due to my difficulty seeing things from the inside. I cannot untangle that which I cannot see, and my outward vision has always been the clearest.
Unfortunately, such unreserved sharing hasn't always been appreciated. Quite often, it was (and still is) misconstrued as selfishly grabbing for attention. Yet, I know my intentions for doing so have been rooted in a genuine desire to connect – to reach beyond the boundaries of my isolated experience and stir recognition in another. Perhaps to feel less alone myself, but also to say 'Look...you're not alone – I feel it, too!'
While I can't claim that my juvenile motives were entirely pure, I know that my most predominant memory of childhood is of an unmitigated frustration at being misunderstood. As the 5th child of 6, I had a lot of other voices and opinions to contend with – a daily barrage of reflections about what was and was not acceptable behavior.
It hasn't been easy.
However open and trusting I once was, as I grew, I learned to better emulate societal norms – to smile, and keep my chin up – to tone-down and redress my emotions into a more digestible, manicured persona. I made every attempt to refine my demeanor to better avoid problematic stigmas. I really did try.
Trouble is, I'm also a terrible liar, and withholding truth is really no different than speaking untruths. Whatever charade I try to uphold – and there have been many – I invariably fail.
All that I've stifled – my un-expressed torment – has quietly eroded my foundation...like black mold, unseen beneath layers of dishonest paint. The masking of true self in patchwork scaffolding has repeatedly led to a dire collapse of the internal structure it so poorly hides.
Without realizing I was doing so, I've suppressed the very medicine that I now know to be the most vital.
In a very real sense, I've made myself sick.
My attempts to conform created a cyclical pattern that I'm only recently beginning to be able to recognize and predict.
A dilution of truths – curtailed expression – an unnaturally opaque, holding of the tongue – followed by an anguished darkness. Then a slow revival – a tearing down of rotting walls – a rebuilding, repair and reclamation – a re-emergence of my most creative, confident self. Then a mis-step or two – some unsettling disruption – a slow-motion stumble – a gradual shutting in and closing off – a recoiling – a dulling of senses – and, always...an excruciating return of the relentless shadows.
In my darkest hours, my soul is trying to disappear. I fully recede – without drawing attention to my vanishing. I don't know how I do it, but I manage to withdraw far too deeply before anyone even notices I'm gone. I just quietly slip out of view.
It's like being in a kind of coma – a state of arrested vitality – a spiritual vacancy – a torpid, melancholic slumber.
Waking Up
In this moment, I'm in the early stages of yet another deconstruction – the part where I slowly begin to remember who I am.
A crucial part of that process is writing – sifting through the mess of my emotional unrest, untangling sentiments and organizing cluttered notions into intelligible language. As I write, it's as though the wisest part of me takes over – like some clever sorcerer's trick, writing bypasses the weakest voices within me, affording me a clearer, more compassionate view. Reading back, I see things I was previously incapable of perceiving.
This time, the writing came first in the form of a song called 'Kaleidoscope Grey'. I've known the deluge of words would soon follow, which it finally did, a few nights ago. Just as I was surprised by the impulse to share my song on this platform, I'm equally (if not more) shocked to find myself drafting this post. Still...the compulsion is strong. However dangerous – I'm willing to risk it.
I sincerely believe the affliction that plagues me is more common than not – that the human condition is an inherently lonely one – each of us doing our best with what we've got – trying too hard to show only the very best of ourselves.
It's time to break the stigma.
What I'm about to share is the most candid glimpse I can offer of how it feels as one begins to stir from a deeply depressive state – as written in a private journal, unintended for public view. I offer this in faith that it will be received with kindness and compassion. I cannot understate the vulnerability of doing so. And yet – I suspect, it is that very truth that will transmute the risk into potent medicine of a kind I might not otherwise have access to.
I thank you, in advance, for being part of my healing.
~ inhale ~
Always the question of how to start. Somehow, after so long removed from this, it feels awkward and choppy – clumsy and disjointed – lacking grace or elegance. Not to say that my writing has ever been fluid as it begins. My fingers become rusty and stiff – my bones and joints settling into some less dexterous, slumbering state.
However cold and clunky these claws feel as they search for letters and sleepily string them together into some kind of meaningful thread, with each pressing down, some bit of weariness is shed. Ever so slightly warmer become my fingers as they begin to remember how to move.
Having established the habitual drawing of attention first to the silences – my pattern of shutting up, then talking about my shut-up-ness before actually uttering anything of relevance or meaning – perhaps I can skip straight to the part where I attempt to extract whatever emotional pus has been festering beneath the hush. To draw out the thing that compels me to sit and fumble over keys – to press against the most tender spots and force a pressurized expulsion.
It's really nothing new – having done this now, more times than I can count. So many times falling mute, wether by choice or by nature, muffling the truth of my anguish, over and over and over, forgetting that such behavior only magnifies the turbulence and lays waste to my dwindling courage. The darkness seems hell-bent on drawing me back in. Finding my way out becomes increasingly arduous as I grow more and more convinced that I'm not worth fighting for.
~ exhale ~
Every time, I promise myself I'll never do it again. I vow to keep writing, to spend time with my guitar, to open my damn mouth and release my pain through my greatest gift – my voice. It doesn't matter how certain I feel when I make such bold agreements, life always finds a way to pull the heavy blankets once again over my eyes, plunging me – millimeter by millimeter – back into vacant darkness.
Once there, and even in the diminishing light, I'm entirely blind to my own capacity to be anything other than mute and destitute – a listless, dragging, flat echo of myself. Rather, the most lifeless, exhausted part of my being takes the wheel and simply refuses to drive.
I become absolutely convinced that I'm experiencing an essential truth about who I am – that, after all, I'm nothing but a meaningless waste of flesh and breath, that even my bones are weak and hideous, that pain is my life sentence – a befitting punishment for having so throughly failed at being a decent, worthwhile human.
How fucking sad is that?! As I type it now, I feel so ashamed – so aware of the insidiousness of those voices. If only the clarity of my awakenings could somehow light my perspective once I fall back into my dreary stupor.
And yet – that is the way of depression – the cruel reality of its conundrum...if remembering were so easy, the forgetting would happen less.
~ inhale ~
It's not so unlike alternately existing on opposite sides of a very thin wall made of two way mirror. From one side, the other is seen so clearly – the distance between is identifiably no wider than a choice – a choice that seems so obvious and simple – as easy as opening a door and stepping through.
From the other side, however, the wall simply reflects the dismal nature of one's surroundings. All that can be seen is an infinitely expanding nothingness, with no discernible way out...no chance of escape. There appears to be no choice, no hope – nothing but more dreariness and despair, and only the faintest memory of ever feeling otherwise.
And so...in that heaviest of places, I make no move in any direction. Instead, I slowly collapse inward, becoming less and less capable of seeing how very near my salvation truly lies. It takes a herculean effort – a whale's share of will – to catch the tiniest glimmer of light in one's periphery and dare to move, ever so slightly, to get a better look.
Now repeat that effort every minute of every single day – willing yourself to keep looking, straining to remember how to see it, to begin to move towards believing it exists – light...levity...meaning and purpose. Somewhere out there, beyond the rippling pain and gripping shadows...LIFE persists.
Somehow – despite the persistence of my amnesia – I always find my way out. Even if those bouts of freedom are hard won and brief....I wake. Again....and again....and again.
~ exhale ~
This time, I feel a different sort of groggy. The addition of chemicals during this last bout changed the game, somewhat. An antidepressant altered my brain – effectively destroying my ability to care.
At first I enjoyed the unfamiliar apathy. I called them my 'care-less' pills – I'd never before known such a complete lack of concern. I was blissfully numb – it very nearly cost me my life.
I suppose I'm grateful – it showed me, without question, that my deep consideration of others is what's kept me going this long. Any and all suicidal ideations, however dire or peripheral, have been held at bay by the fact of my caring so much for those I love. And yet, a significant piece of my depressive pattern is the excruciation of being misunderstood, primarily that of being perceived as caring only about myself.
Indeed, it was the pressing of that age-old, emotional bruise that sent me into autopilot – moving, detached and pragmatic, toward a certain, careless end. Then shockingly back into aware presence at the unexpected sound of a kind soul's voice on the other end of a telephone line – bottles of pills in hand – simply a question of which to take and how much, rather than if to take them at all.
~ inhale ~
My researching mind is what ultimately saved me – I had to know precisely what would happen with each optional overdose. And so I googled each one – percocet, oxycodone, cyclobenzaprine, flexeril, cymbalta, gabapentin, x-strength tylenol – thanks to my painful physicality, I have much to choose from. I just needed to know which combination of pills would be the fastest, relatively painless and least messy for whomever would find me.
As I read through a resulting article outlining the effects of overdose, I recall seeing a question interjected into the body of the text – something to the effect of 'Are you thinking of killing yourself? If so, please click here.'
My memory is unclear – I don't know if I clicked and it dialed directly, or if it offered a # and I dialed manually. All I recall is the phone against my ear – the sound of ringing, then....his voice, and the sobering realization of what I was about to do.
I may never remember all I said to that kindly gentleman (angel), nor what he said to me during that 4 hour, life-saving phone-call. But I'll never forget the moment his voice reached me – like the most gentle alarm, jolting me suddenly into terrified alertness – nor the deluge of shame-filled tears that followed.
Few things have scared me as much as that night – I was so close to actually leaving.
I wish I could say that the risk of me ever returning that place is low or, somehow historical. In truth, that...'lapse of concern', for lack of a better term – it brought attention to my frightening proximity – the thin line that separates my most alive self from my most miserable – that terrifyingly slim distance between life and death is also no wider than a simple choice.
~ exhale ~
On my good days, I remember – my redemption relies on my willingness to choose it. I know, absolutely, that I must consciously choose life in every – single – moment.
The tragedy, is that...when I most need to recall the necessity of that choosing, I seem incapable of doing so. I experience a total paralysis of will – an annihilation of consent. In that place, I sincerely believe I have no choice – that my sorrow is inescapable – that I deserve nothing but a vacuous darkness.
So...as I slowly rub the blur out of my light-deprived eyes – as I blink my surroundings into sharper focus and begin to remember – this time, I make no claims of never again nor declare unreasonable promises of how I'll behave next time.
No – this time, my reawakening is tinged with the wisdom of having teetered on a new kind of precipice. No longer the flighty drama of youth, but the very real, very scary truth of my own mortality and just how fragile it is in my unstable hands.
~ inhale ~
It doesn't happen over night. My journey into and out of depression is comprised of a million micro-decisions, each one altering my course, ever so slightly. My strongest self knows – I'm either imprisoned or liberated by the sum of those choices. How present I am determines the direction each one supports, reflecting either a will to live or...a resigned defeat.
All I can do is hold onto this understanding for as long as I'm able...this time. To wrestle through that choice each morning – to drag myself out of bed – to sit in silent meditation – to stretch out the physical echoes of my inner battles – remember to eat – and keep on choosing....and choosing...and choosing, again.
To repeat, as often and wholehearted as I am able – I CHOOSE LIFE.
I CHOOSE LIFE.
I CHOOSE LIFE.
~ exhale ~
Real Talk
I mean not to insinuate that every person who struggles with depression is solely responsible for their suffering. That is no more true than a cancer patient being at fault for falling ill.
No matter the disease, how one responds to it will always hinge upon individual choice. Even the most miraculous of cures requires the willing participation of the afflicted. However promising the medicine...it is useless unless ingested.
Depression has a way of making a person believe they are incapable of swallowing – that spitting out the remedy is both easier and safer somehow. Choosing self-preservation becomes an act of exceptional courage.
I can only speak to my own experience, in acknowledgement of the role I play in either languishing or thriving. For me, there is no magic pill – only the accumulation of healthy choices to sway the pendulum in my favor – out of reach of the trickster, light-hungry shadows...
...even if only for a brilliant moment or two.
If you notice a friend has gone silent – please reach out.