Love Me, Love My Crippling Depression
Much like Scene, each issue of RVW is anchored by different themes. One of the themes of the October issue was 'mental health,' and I had mentioned to Eileen that I was interested in submitting something to her. "What are the deets of your mental health column," she asked me. "Not being a mental health expert yourself, unless you have some kind of hidden talent."
I was given an 800 word limit, which she was kind enough to extend to a little over 1,000; but I could go on for days and days, and go into graphic detail about my debilitating depression and anxiety. I often joke online when I share links to my pieces (specifically long-winded ones written for other sites) that it's the 'most important thing I've written.' This is not one of those things. It's an exercise in brevity, but it's also a place to start. The culture keeps saying we need to have that 'talk' about mental health in this country. Maybe if people were more upfront about how fucking awful they feel all the time, maybe people could get the help they need.
Love Me, Love My Crippling Depression
There’s a chance almost every wedding you’ve attended has included
some variant on ‘in sickness and in
health.’ When you hear that, what comes to mind? Is it someone surrounded
by a pile of snotty tissues, waxing poetic for memories of when they could
breath through both nostrils, all while their spouse stands by wishing they
hadn’t married such a huge baby?
Or do you think of something more severe, like a badly
broken limb, or a cancer diagnosis—the kind of ‘sickness’ that is, at least for
the foreseeable future, going to alter, and put incredible strain on the
relationship.
What happens when that ‘sickness’ is still something
tangible, just not as visually immediate?
My wife Wendy told me the funny (and also sad) thing is
that, originally, she was attracted to my depression, because I was a brooding,
emotional young man. What happens when you are no longer young? What happens
when you’re in your mid-30s, barely able to leave the house in half-hearted
attempts at socialization, and you are almost always on the verge of tears yet
unable to cry?
“Dammit,” my wife thinks on some days, after I have
exhausted her patience yet again. “Why didn’t I just marry somebody who was
happy?”
Living with depression makes you selfish—not like a child
who is incapable of sharing a toy—but it makes things so insular that you are oblivious
to what your depression is doing to others around you; and depending on how far
you have sunk, oblivious to what it is doing to you.
Living with depression, I presume, is like having somebody
always trying to strangle you. There are moments—always fleeting—where the grip
is not nearly as tight and you are able to breathe without duress. But then,
usually without warning, you can feel the icy fingers sliding around your
throat.
Then they begin to tighten.
For a majority of my life I have been prone to melancholy,
but if you are looking for a catalyst for the larger problem, more than likely it
stems from five or six years ago. Long story short—my best friend had a near
death experience and unfortunately, passed away a year later; through it all, I
didn’t process my grief, and I began to shut down.
My wife has accurately described me as being loath to do
things socially, but there was a time before all of this when I was able to
bring myself to try; but as I got worse, I was less likely to want to leave the
house, or show any real interest in things I once cared about.
This meant I was an awful lot of fun to be around.
“One of the ways I started to cope with that was by doing my
own stuff,” Wendy said. “But that was hard because I didn’t want to leave you
alone—but I had to take care of myself.”
In doing that, she inadvertently gained an independence that
I may have inadvertently been keeping her from. In retrospect, we realized that
we might not have been ‘codependent,’ but by being a one-car family for a
number of years, one rarely did something without the other.
“I think it was a good thing for me to be pursing my own
interests and being a healthy person,” she said. “And being okay with the fact
that we weren’t interested in 100% the same things together.”
Because of this, she started auditioning for plays, making
more friends in our town, eventually developed an interest in filmmaking, and
went on to create a web series.
“So in a way, your depression was a gift,” she deadpanned.
“Thanks honey.”
Because if you can’t try to laugh, what else are you going
to do? You can cry, I guess, if you are able to.
Living with someone who is living with depression means you
have to have an infinite amount of patience—but that doesn’t mean you won’t lose
it. “There were some days when I just wanted to shake you and say, ‘Things
aren’t so bad for Christ’s sake!,’” my wife tells me. “It’s not something I can
force you to snap out of but there were days where I wanted to.”
Wendy will often become resentful—first, at other couples
who are having a good time, sharing pictures on social media; then, at me,
because I can barely leave the house. “Such and such’s husband isn’t lying on
the floor,” she’ll think. “And they’re on a trip right now.”
Yes maybe the such and such’s and so and so’s look like they
are having a lot of fun, because it’s all smiles and selfies and drinking mixed
drinks on the beach or whatever. Those people can’t be having that much fun, can they? Deep down,
we’re all miserable, right?
Is there an Instagram filter that removes depression?
Living with someone who is living with depression means they
are more than likely also living with anxiety. The two go hand in hand—I mean,
can you name a more iconic duo?
The depression can make it so you’re too sad to leave the
house, and the anxiety makes it so that if you do wind up leaving the house, you’re on edge and filling with panic
the entire time you are away. Even the simplest sounding task, like going to
Target becomes a race against time to see if you can make it in and out of the
store before the existential dread creeps in and all you can think about is how
quickly you can get out and get back home.
Depression and anxiety are a tragic chicken and egg
situation—which one came first? Am I depressed because I am so terribly
anxious? Or, am I anxious because I am so terribly depressed?
As an adult, I realize now that I was an anxious child—and I
can recall two very specific moments (both in public places, both when I was
around 10 years old) where it got the best of me. As an adult—an anxious and
depressed one—I can recognize it in other people as some kind of attempt at
empathy, and I can try to recognize it in myself, meaning I am now resigned to
believe that it is easier to stay home rather than place myself in situations
where my anxiety could become problematic. It seems worth noting that this is
different, at least for me, than what someone would write off as ‘social
anxiety.’
For me, ‘social anxiety’ is where you put yourself in a
social situation and don’t know what to say around others; for me, the anxiety
comes from just being there—someplace you don’t really want to, all while being
entirely too depressed to even muster the energy to converse.
The thing about living with someone who is living with
depression and anxiety is that you feel incredibly alone—but you’re not. There
are other people who are struggling to make sense of this too, and there are myriad
resources out there to help—both the depressed person, and their spouse, like
support groups, national organizations, or even just visiting a therapist and
beginning that conversation.
Maybe we might not all
be miserable, but people unwilling or too afraid to talk about their anxieties
or living with depression. You need to have those conversations, be open with
your partner, and use the resources available to you—because without realizing
it, you’re too frazzled to even go to the grocery store, and the occasional
‘sad day’ turns into a ‘sad week,’ and that turns into a ‘sad month,’ which
turns into a ‘sad year,’ and you’re letting it get the best of you.
And if you let it get the best of you, it becomes that much
harder to find your way back.
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