There are moments of time that define every generation, and there is always a question to accompany that moment. It most often begins something like this: "Where were you when...?" For my grandparents, the question was, "Where were you when you got the news about Pearl Harbor?" For my parents, it's usually something along the lines of, "What were you doing when you heard that President Kennedy had been shot?" For my generation, the question is, "Where were you on 9/11?" These questions spark memories that usually lead to historical and cultural discussions about the time period, and what life was like back in the day. They are fantastic glimpses into the memories and cherished dreams of our past. They tell a lot about us as a culture and as a nation. Sometimes they tell something about us as individuals.
Monday, August 11, 2014 was a defining moment in my lifetime. I'm still trying to process the whys. I'm still trying to work through the coming ramifications of this post. But I will always and forever be able to remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I found out Robin Williams had committed suicide due to his struggle with depression.
I did not know Mr. Williams personally. I had not had the honor of meeting him. I had never seen any of his live performances, nor have I seen all of his movies. I have only second-hand knowledge of his personality, his kindness, and his love for others. What I know of him I have gleaned from the same sources as millions of other fans: television, movies, and the internet.
However, I do know about depression. I know about the sadness that is more than sadness. I know about the physical pain, the interrupted sleep cycles, the irritability, the guilt, the effect on family and friends, all of it. I know all about those insidious demons of the mind and how they can make a person feel that the only possible relief is to contemplate the grass from the other side. I know, because I have battled them daily for as long as I can remember.
Depression is an illness. But it's not like a cold or the flu or even a cancer that you could potentially heal from. It's a long term, debilitating disease that can, and often does, last an entire lifetime. However, it's an invisible illness. You cannot look at a person and tell if they suffer from depression. And most people who do, don't want you to know. This is why the world is still reeling from the news of Robin Williams' death. We had no idea. He didn't want us to.
When depressed people do open up about their struggle, it is one of the most difficult things we have ever done in our lives. I rank it right up there with giving birth. I am, by nature, an introvert. I don't share well with others. To talk about what the dark demons say to me feels like running a cheese grater over my skin. So, when I do talk about it, the last thing I need to hear, is, "If you get up and stir around, you'll feel better," or "Have you prayed about it?" or "Smile, it can't be that bad." No, I won't, constantly, and yes, it can. I know people mean well, and I thank you for that, but mostly what we want is for you to just listen without judging, without commenting, and without telling us what we need to do to "be better."
Just like any other disease, depression is physically painful. Every joint and tendon in my body aches. I don't tolerate cold temperatures at all. It's not just a soreness. It's a marrow deep pain that no amount of medication or exercise seems to alleviate. There is a muscle along my shoulder blade that no masseuse has ever been able to get to relax. Top that off with chronic migraines, and you get a wonderful cocktail of almost constant agony.
Depressed people have weird diet habits. As a teenager, my mother worried that I was anorexic, even as I consumed four hot dogs in front of her, and then raided the refrigerator for something else to eat. My senior year in high school, I existed on Chips Ahoy cookies and little else. Now, there are some days where the thought of eating anything makes me nauseous and others where I cannot stop binging. I need to lose about thirty pounds, but the demons constantly tell me it will probably never happen. They may be right. I also know that I just need to be more physically active. They tell me this will probably never happen either.
A full nights sleep is a distant memory. As I write this, I've been awake since 2:30 am. It's now 9:00 pm. I'm so tired that when I went to the bathroom at work yesterday, I couldn't understand why I couldn't open the door. It took me a couple of minutes to figure out that I had locked it when I went in. When I finally lie down tonight, unless I take a sleep aid, I will spend hours reciting Psalm 23 in my head to keep the darkness at bay, and I will probably wake sometime in the night and do this all over again. If I do take a sleep aid, I will dream. Crazy, insane, disjointed dreams that have no logical flow and no connection, that I can see, to the waking world. I know that dreams are the brain's attempt to "file" what our senses have come into contact with, but seriously? In what universe have I ever serenaded baby alligators in the church baptistry?
By now you're telling yourself, "If that's all there is to this depression thing, what's the big deal?" Honey chile, (as we say down here) that's the easy stuff. Those are the good days when the blackness is quiet and I get to leave the house. On the not so good days...
Depression tells you you are losing your mind. The demons tell you you are going crazy, you are lazy, selfish, ungrateful, ugly, whatever they have to to keep you off balance and convince you that you are alone and no one wants you around. If you do have to go out in the midst of the bleakness, get ready for panic attacks, obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and mind-numbing, vomit-inducing phobias that you would not normally dream existed in the realm of your subconscious. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.
There are some days when there are no feelings at all. Literally nothing. It goes beyond emotional exhaustion, I have those numb days too, but this is more. This is, I. Just. Don't. Care. Those are the really dark days and are, in some ways, scarier than just being overwhelmed by the bleakness. This is the time when I can understand how easy it would be to just give up and let go. I just don't care enough to put forth the effort. On those days, I've learned it's best to limit contact with others. Or at least to say as little as possible.
Depression can be annoying. I'm not talking about the endless loads of laundry, the piles of dishes in the sink and the dust bunny carnivals under the furniture annoying. I talking about how some days I wish that God would turn the sunlight off just for a few minutes, and if The Wonderdog whimpers in his sleep one more time, I swear I'm going to pull his fur out one hair at a time annoying. Then I feel guilty because things like that aren't really annoying and that annoys me too. And the spiral goes on.
Depression causes your mind to fracture. You forget how to do the simplest things. We joke about walking into a room and forgetting why we came in there, but when you're battling the demons, you sometimes forget how to get to the room or what it's even called. Family and friends laugh at my list making, but it's the way I cope with getting through the day. Sometimes, the only way I know it's really bad is when I start thinking of things and then realize I forgot to write them on the lists.
Depression is the most boring thing in the world. And the most tiring. You feel stuck in this hellacious cycle and are desperate for anyone to listen to you but you don't want to talk to anyone and besides, it's the same story day after day and you know there are only so many times people can take hearing it and your prayers all seem stuck on the ceiling and dear God, stop whining, just get up and do something, and......
The worst part? All of this happens AT THE SAME BLASTED TIME!!!
As a child, I learned quickly that the easiest escape from the blackness was in the written word. So I read. Voraciously. Anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read everything from Dr. Seuss to War and Peace to the Encyclopedia Britannica. I hated literature classes because I had already read the texts. It was the only thing I knew to do to keep the demons from overwhelming me. Imagine being nine years old and reading The Shining by Stephen King because you know that his monsters are less scary than your own. That's what depression feels like.
As a teenager, I fought the monster in other ways. I did not fall into drug and alcohol addiction, thank God, for several reasons. One, had I experimented with drugs, The Parental Units would have, quite literally, I believe, killed me. Two, I have a very low tolerance for pain. In addition to depression, there are the migraines and more than one drink leaves me writhing on the floor in agony for three days. I try to avoid that at all costs. But I understand how very easy it would be to fall into these traps. How very tempting. Anything to turn the thoughts off for just a little while. However, there are different addictions that are just as deadly, just as heartbreaking, and just as painful to recuperate from. Some of those I did experiment with, and I still struggle with them today. That's how depression works.
As a young married mother, I threw myself into my family and my job to keep the demons at bay. With three gifted children and an extremely demanding vocation, as well as volunteering in numerous service areas at church, I made sure I didn't have time to listen to the darkness whispering in my psyche. As long as I stayed busy, the demons stayed quiet. That's what depression can drive you to do.
At no point did it ever occur to me to ask for help or go to a doctor or even mention what I was feeling or thinking. I knew what was going on in my brain, at least I figured it out when I got old enough to know what depression was. But, call it stubbornness, ego, pride, fear, or whatever, I never said a word to anyone. I thought I was being strong. I thought I was handling it. I was so very wrong. I now believe it requires more strength to admit you cannot do it alone than it does to fight the battles by yourself. I do know it takes a great deal of courage.
The only thing that got me to give up the fight was the fact that the migraines became unbearable and I was referred to a neurologist. After about a year of various medical cocktails, he called me a "stubborn jackass," and said if I really wanted to get better, get myself to a counselor or quit wasting my time and his. I started searching that day. Like I said, low tolerance for pain.
I'm nowhere near healed. I don't know when or even if that day will come. There are still more dark days than not. But even if the demons never fully disappear, I am winning the battle. One day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time. But I am winning.
I seldom cry. It has been part of my refusal to give in to the demons of my mind for so long that now it is difficult for me to do so. I am the strong one, and tears, to me, have always been a sign of my failures. But this week, I have cried. I have grieved. Not just for the loss of a brilliant, comedic mind but for the thought that, for once, the demons might have won.
And, until I process through this particular discerning moment, I will continue to unashamedly shed tears.
Every time I hear the words, "Good morning, Vietnam!" I will cry.
Every time I read "O Captain, My Captain" it will be with new meaning, and I will cry.
Every time I think of a clueless alien tossing eggs into the air in an effort to get them to "fly and be free," I will cry.
Every time Pan antagonizes Hook, Genie grants a wish, and Mrs. D. does a drive-by fruiting, I will remember, and I will cry.
One day, the darkness will be gone for good and so will the tears. Until then, thank you, Mr. Williams, for giving me the courage to step into the sunlight. I only wish you could have walked there with me.
