I was 18. Freshman year of college.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was walking down the sidewalk somewhere on campus. It was brisk fall day.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt this overwhelming compulsion to cry.
Nothing was wrong. In fact, the sun was out, pretty girls were walking everywhere wearing their pretty smiles, and I had every reason to be enjoying every single breath I was taking.
But instead of relishing in the beauty of my surroundings, a sinking sadness pulled me off that sidewalk and dropped me under a tree a few dozen feet away.
Within about 30 seconds, I became incapacitated by a choking wave of despair that any attempt to describe would only serve as an insult.
I had no choice. I was overcome.
And so, I positioned myself to be out of sight from anyone, and under that tree in Georgia, I wept.
This wasn't some limp-wristed, half-assed kind of cry, either. This was an abruptly violent, tears-and-mucous bawl that spewed forth, powered by every muscle my torso could recruit.
I distinctly remember, as my face contorted and my body pulsed in agony, wondering what the exact hell was happening.
For as I said, nothing was wrong.
My dog hadn't died.
I didn't fail an exam.
I mean, I was even wearing sandals, so my shoes couldn't have even been on too tight.
The point is I had zero reason to be any kind of sad at all, and yet, there I was under that tree, enduring an S-tier existential ache that manifested as the ugliest, vilest, and most consuming cry I had had since my mother passed years prior.
About 20 minutes in, sheer exhaustion took over. After all, one can only heave, secrete, and writhe for so long before the body taps out. And that's exactly what happened.
My abdominal and neck muscles were swollen with lactic acid. The tears and snot had begun drying into a stiff patina on my face, and I had just enough sense about me to attempt a standing position, which then turned into a slow, somber walk to my dorm room.
Keeping my head down, I made it to privacy, where I dropped on my bed and tried to understand what just happened.
Little did I know that what I had experienced was the first of what would be thousands of acute depressive episodes that would rip from me any kind of peace or contentment I could hope to enjoy for longer than a few days at a time.
That first episode was in 1998.
Some loose math will inform you that I'm in my mid-40's now. 50 is a stone's throw away, and by now, I have an ironclad grasp on the affliction that has been the albatross around my neck for the majority of my adult life.
Depression. More specifically, Major Depressive Disorder, or MDD.
Nearly 30 years of the stuff.
Jesus...reading that just now, man...it should make me feel like a warrior.
'30 years'.
Instead, it makes me feel embarrassed.
Oh I've tried it all. I know people say that and many of them are being hyperbolic, but in my case, it's everything and the kitchen sink:
Medications (more than 15 different ones)
Therapy (group and individual)
Inpatient/Outpatient treatment
ECT (that was a wild ride)
TMS (a recent and costly foray)
Psychedelic therapy (interesting, but altogether inconsequential)
Prayer (a last ditch effort)
Meditation/Mindfulness (a great tool but far from a true salve)
...and I won't bore you with the continued list. I think you get the point.
Speaking of points...what is the point in writing all of this out?
I used to talk about my depression in hopes of some kind of cathartic release, which does happen sometimes if I'm lucky.
But really, I think my point in writing all this up is to speak to the few of you who may feel completely alone in your struggle even after numerous decades of doing everything you're told to do in an effort to feel better.
Because, if you're like me, things just haven't gotten better for you.
Despite the well-meaning platitudes lobbed our way from friends, family and doctors, for some of us, it just doesn't get better.
Sure, there might be fits and spurts of hope...maybe an entire week or two might go by without a single suicidal thought or enervating bout of self-flagellation.
But, again, if you're like me, you eventually return to the default state.
The tired, melancholic, and yet still brutally honest state, where nothing is purer than the gravity that pulls your very soul down into the pit of your bowels with every passing moment.
This weight...this heft...no one can experience but you. It's 100% unique to your being, and in a way, it's sort of something to be proud of.
It's like, "There are many who may have sadness, but there are none who have MINE."
It's a small pride, but it's a pride nonetheless.
---
They say that when we die, we endure a life review during which we're shown all the consequences of every important decision we ever made.
For me, I've had to make a conscious, perpetual decision to simply stay alive.
To stay alive, despite the callous yank of death and the siren-like call of nonexistence
To stay alive, despite the instinctual urge to fold into the assured peace of non-being
To stay alive, despite the now-certainty that there's much more to fear in this life than there is to celebrate.
And so, when that life review happens, I hope I see first-hand the benefits of having made this decision.
Because I surely cannot see them now.
Thanks for reading.
