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The following is some very candid effort to explain to those who care about the depression I've been experiencing over the past year or so. If you don't want to read it, I completely understand.
I'm trying to write this out because I'm having a lot of trouble explaining it. I'm hoping I can better understand it, and maybe those who read it can too. I've tried a bunch of times to write this out before, but it never worked, probably because I was concentrating on how I was writing instead of what I was writing. Sometimes you have to not worry about writing professionally, and just write. I think this is one of those times.
It's hard telling people about this depression. I've wanted so badly to at least tell my doctor, but every time I talk to him, I chicken out. I am afraid I'll come across as selfish or lazy or vain or melodramatic or something. I proofread this book years ago called Choice Theory. The psychologist who wrote it talked about a guy who came to see him. His wife had just left him and he'd been unable to go to work for a couple of days. The psychologist told him he had just been doing it to impress him (the psychologist) with how hard things were for him. "Hey, look, things are so hard, I had to stay home from work, aren't you impressed?" that basic idea. I don't want anyone to think that. I'm trying very hard not to exagerate or distort anything.
I've been depressed before, for short periods of time. Usually it was over some girl or other whom I loved, or thought I loved, achingly and undyingly. That's how it was in the beginning, teens and early twenties. Then in my mid-twenties, I was in a very abusive relationship, and that depressed me as well.
But now here I am, 41. I've been deeply depressed for over a year now. The aching love I have for a woman is returned by that woman, and far from being abusive, she is just wonderful to me. I have a good job, wonderful family, equally wonderful friends. So why am I depressed? I honestly don't know, but I sure am.
This depression can best be characterized, I think, as a very, very deep sadness, not the (very painful) longing of young love or infatuation, not the anger of bitterness, just sadness. It's a weird feeling, being sad when there's nothing to be sad about.
But my heart goes out to the guy who didn't impress his psychologist by not being able to go to work. My aching desire is to get a few days off work when I'm not sick, when I have no obligations, when I can just stay at home and away from life for a bit. I don't hate my job, I certainly don't dislike my wonderful co-workers. In fact, if I could do my job from the seclusion of my home from time to time, I would be glad to.
But when you're this depressed, the very act of following through on a commitment of any kind requires a herculean effort. I sit there thinking, "If I can let my mind wander for just another five minutes, I do whatever it is I'm putting off doing." I treasure those five minutes.
Then there are the rigidly-scheduled things like doctor's appointments and the like. I can't "just wait another five minutes for those". I have to go to them. So I try to schedule them as late as possible: "Okay, I'll schedule this appointment after my trip to the States, so I can enjoy myself before I have to face it."
Which leads to another thing I have to deal with, something that coexists with the sadness: deep-seated and almost insurmountable fear of the unknown. Why do I want so badly to put off that doctor's appointment? Why not look forward to talking to my doctor, a very amiable person who knows enough about so many things that you can carry on a great conversation with him about just about anything, and a truly enjoyable person? Because I'm afraid of the unknown, I'm afraid of his disapproval, I'm afraid he might have to tell me something I dont want to hear, I'm afraid I'm a bad person, I'm just afraid.
Years ago, I was in a summer program for the blind in Winnipeg. I'd take the bus to and from Winnipeg, from my home town. It was about a two-hour bus ride each way. One afternoon, one of the young ladies running this summer program told me that they had a bit of time on their hands, and would I like to simply be driven home by them that day? I was sure, positive, that the reason for this was that I'd done something grievously wrong, and they felt it would take that long to reprimand, scold, criticize, or be angry at me. I spent the whole trip home cringing in the backseat, waiting for the ax to fall, waiting to be chewed out. We got to our farm, and still nobody had said anything. So I asked the driver, "What is it you wanted to talk to me about? "Nothing," she said, "I told you, we just had a bit of extra time and thought we'd drive you home."
But that last story epitimizes the way I think. If you give me a ride home and you usually don't, I think you're looking for a captive audience so you can tell me what a rotten person I am.
You see, I think you must think I'm a rotten person, because that's what I think. I look back on my life, and I just see the mistakes, the dumb, stupid things I did, the time I thought I was so smart but wasn't, the failed attempts, the misses, the mess-ups, the life of a born loser. I know it's not true, but I often see myself as God's punishment to the world, as the "before" picture in a commercial advertising a virtuous and useful life. I despise myself, and am constantly amazed when someone doesn't despise me as well. Does it have anything to do with my blindness? I honestly don't know. I can't remember kids in school actually making fun of my blindness, but they did love to take advantage of it. Did that affect me later? I'm not sure.
So you're dealing with a very sad, very scared person who thinks he's as terrible a person as a serial killer. that's me. I go to work, trying my best each day to mask the hurt and the anguish, because i't not professional to be yourself on the job. I go to church on Sundays, where I'm expectedted to be happy and cheerful as well, and where I have to struggle with the loud environment with my hearing problem, and if I want to stay home from church for the occasional week, I'm told by my roommate that I am trying to run away from God. If I'm talking to my mother, I have to be having a wonderful time at work because she's always teling her friends how lucky I am to have such a good job and how I'm working at exactly the place where my dad had hoped I'd wind up (both of which are true).
I want desperately to crawl in a hole and hide for a while. Not forever, not for the rest of my life, just for a bit. One time, at the height of my dad's illness, the one which eventually cost him his life, I came home one evening and hear him groaning in agony. Hearing my dad in such pain, I needed to go off on my own for just a few seconds to compose myself. My mom thought that I was trying to avoid the reality of my dad's pain, so she tried to stop me from going down into the basement, but I insisted. I just needed to go down there for a few minutes to compose myself, and when I came up a few minutes later, my mom realized this and apologized for misinterpreting my actions.
But that's the way it is with me now. I just want a few weeks away from the real-life world of responsibility and obligation, of masks and pretence, to compose myself. If I could be granted one thing, it would be three weeks in a nice hotel room with room service and good Internet and no outside phone service, just to recharge and, as the Beatles said, help me put my feet back on the ground. I'd be back, I wouldn't turn into a recluse ... at least not more so than I already am. But it's all a pipe dream anyway.
So that's where I stand. I've tried my best to be honest, to be candid without exagerating, to "tell it like it is". You may have lost respect for me because of it, I don't know, you may think I'm silly and childish, you may agree with me that I'm a horrible person. Regardless, now you can formulate your opinion on reality instead of conjecture. I have the best family, the best girlfriend, the best friends in the world. I have a God whom I cherish above all else and above all others, and whose love keeps me going even at the worst of times. I know that my God, my family, my girlfriend, and my friends don't like to see me like this, and that it's hard on those who love me. To those I've hurt, I can only offer my heartfelt apology. Ditto to those I've let down or disappointed. To those of you who have taken the time to read this, thank you, and if you think less of me because of this, I truly do not blame you.
I'm trying to write this out because I'm having a lot of trouble explaining it. I'm hoping I can better understand it, and maybe those who read it can too. I've tried a bunch of times to write this out before, but it never worked, probably because I was concentrating on how I was writing instead of what I was writing. Sometimes you have to not worry about writing professionally, and just write. I think this is one of those times.
It's hard telling people about this depression. I've wanted so badly to at least tell my doctor, but every time I talk to him, I chicken out. I am afraid I'll come across as selfish or lazy or vain or melodramatic or something. I proofread this book years ago called Choice Theory. The psychologist who wrote it talked about a guy who came to see him. His wife had just left him and he'd been unable to go to work for a couple of days. The psychologist told him he had just been doing it to impress him (the psychologist) with how hard things were for him. "Hey, look, things are so hard, I had to stay home from work, aren't you impressed?" that basic idea. I don't want anyone to think that. I'm trying very hard not to exagerate or distort anything.
I've been depressed before, for short periods of time. Usually it was over some girl or other whom I loved, or thought I loved, achingly and undyingly. That's how it was in the beginning, teens and early twenties. Then in my mid-twenties, I was in a very abusive relationship, and that depressed me as well.
But now here I am, 41. I've been deeply depressed for over a year now. The aching love I have for a woman is returned by that woman, and far from being abusive, she is just wonderful to me. I have a good job, wonderful family, equally wonderful friends. So why am I depressed? I honestly don't know, but I sure am.
This depression can best be characterized, I think, as a very, very deep sadness, not the (very painful) longing of young love or infatuation, not the anger of bitterness, just sadness. It's a weird feeling, being sad when there's nothing to be sad about.
But my heart goes out to the guy who didn't impress his psychologist by not being able to go to work. My aching desire is to get a few days off work when I'm not sick, when I have no obligations, when I can just stay at home and away from life for a bit. I don't hate my job, I certainly don't dislike my wonderful co-workers. In fact, if I could do my job from the seclusion of my home from time to time, I would be glad to.
But when you're this depressed, the very act of following through on a commitment of any kind requires a herculean effort. I sit there thinking, "If I can let my mind wander for just another five minutes, I do whatever it is I'm putting off doing." I treasure those five minutes.
Then there are the rigidly-scheduled things like doctor's appointments and the like. I can't "just wait another five minutes for those". I have to go to them. So I try to schedule them as late as possible: "Okay, I'll schedule this appointment after my trip to the States, so I can enjoy myself before I have to face it."
Which leads to another thing I have to deal with, something that coexists with the sadness: deep-seated and almost insurmountable fear of the unknown. Why do I want so badly to put off that doctor's appointment? Why not look forward to talking to my doctor, a very amiable person who knows enough about so many things that you can carry on a great conversation with him about just about anything, and a truly enjoyable person? Because I'm afraid of the unknown, I'm afraid of his disapproval, I'm afraid he might have to tell me something I dont want to hear, I'm afraid I'm a bad person, I'm just afraid.
Years ago, I was in a summer program for the blind in Winnipeg. I'd take the bus to and from Winnipeg, from my home town. It was about a two-hour bus ride each way. One afternoon, one of the young ladies running this summer program told me that they had a bit of time on their hands, and would I like to simply be driven home by them that day? I was sure, positive, that the reason for this was that I'd done something grievously wrong, and they felt it would take that long to reprimand, scold, criticize, or be angry at me. I spent the whole trip home cringing in the backseat, waiting for the ax to fall, waiting to be chewed out. We got to our farm, and still nobody had said anything. So I asked the driver, "What is it you wanted to talk to me about? "Nothing," she said, "I told you, we just had a bit of extra time and thought we'd drive you home."
But that last story epitimizes the way I think. If you give me a ride home and you usually don't, I think you're looking for a captive audience so you can tell me what a rotten person I am.
You see, I think you must think I'm a rotten person, because that's what I think. I look back on my life, and I just see the mistakes, the dumb, stupid things I did, the time I thought I was so smart but wasn't, the failed attempts, the misses, the mess-ups, the life of a born loser. I know it's not true, but I often see myself as God's punishment to the world, as the "before" picture in a commercial advertising a virtuous and useful life. I despise myself, and am constantly amazed when someone doesn't despise me as well. Does it have anything to do with my blindness? I honestly don't know. I can't remember kids in school actually making fun of my blindness, but they did love to take advantage of it. Did that affect me later? I'm not sure.
So you're dealing with a very sad, very scared person who thinks he's as terrible a person as a serial killer. that's me. I go to work, trying my best each day to mask the hurt and the anguish, because i't not professional to be yourself on the job. I go to church on Sundays, where I'm expectedted to be happy and cheerful as well, and where I have to struggle with the loud environment with my hearing problem, and if I want to stay home from church for the occasional week, I'm told by my roommate that I am trying to run away from God. If I'm talking to my mother, I have to be having a wonderful time at work because she's always teling her friends how lucky I am to have such a good job and how I'm working at exactly the place where my dad had hoped I'd wind up (both of which are true).
I want desperately to crawl in a hole and hide for a while. Not forever, not for the rest of my life, just for a bit. One time, at the height of my dad's illness, the one which eventually cost him his life, I came home one evening and hear him groaning in agony. Hearing my dad in such pain, I needed to go off on my own for just a few seconds to compose myself. My mom thought that I was trying to avoid the reality of my dad's pain, so she tried to stop me from going down into the basement, but I insisted. I just needed to go down there for a few minutes to compose myself, and when I came up a few minutes later, my mom realized this and apologized for misinterpreting my actions.
But that's the way it is with me now. I just want a few weeks away from the real-life world of responsibility and obligation, of masks and pretence, to compose myself. If I could be granted one thing, it would be three weeks in a nice hotel room with room service and good Internet and no outside phone service, just to recharge and, as the Beatles said, help me put my feet back on the ground. I'd be back, I wouldn't turn into a recluse ... at least not more so than I already am. But it's all a pipe dream anyway.
So that's where I stand. I've tried my best to be honest, to be candid without exagerating, to "tell it like it is". You may have lost respect for me because of it, I don't know, you may think I'm silly and childish, you may agree with me that I'm a horrible person. Regardless, now you can formulate your opinion on reality instead of conjecture. I have the best family, the best girlfriend, the best friends in the world. I have a God whom I cherish above all else and above all others, and whose love keeps me going even at the worst of times. I know that my God, my family, my girlfriend, and my friends don't like to see me like this, and that it's hard on those who love me. To those I've hurt, I can only offer my heartfelt apology. Ditto to those I've let down or disappointed. To those of you who have taken the time to read this, thank you, and if you think less of me because of this, I truly do not blame you.
