I am depressed.
I first wrote about my general depression history. Then, I tried to give an insider’s perspective on depression. Stephen Fry, a British comedian, author, actor, writer, tech enthusiast, and former depressed individual tweeted a link to an article about a member of the British Parliament who came out as being depressed, and how that is hardly unusual. It is a great, short article, and it does a good job of presenting another view of and on depression that is different than mine.
Being my third article specifically about depression, and my depression in particular, I guess I can christen this an official “thing” but that worries me.
A symptom of my depression is that I am always starting a new project. Right now I am two weeks into a daily picture taking project in which, at 1810 (6:10pm) I snap a picture with my iPhone and upload it to Twitter and Flickr. I am trying to capture the everyday activities of life, and I call it: My Life at 1810. See the set on Flickr. Two weeks in is usually when the bottom falls out. Dig around my Flickr and you will see a few other projects which I started and never finished, such as a picture a day, and a few others.
Because depression sucks the color, vigor, and excitement out of life, the only way I can feel a rush of vitality is to start something. Beginnings are heady with promise, with anticipation, with new ideas, and this infuses energy into the darkness. But without a genuine, clear thinking will that energy fades and cannot be sustained. That clear thinking will is what depression destroys every time. So the project dwindles, is abandoned, and becomes one more Ozymandias to mark the post apocalyptic landscape that is my life. This time around, with the picture a day thing, I have tried to outsmart myself my picking a project that, by definition, ends whenever I want it to end. Convenient, eh? I doubt that it will work, but that is just the depression talking.
All that to say, I don’t know how long I will be able to sustain this self aware series of posts about depression. I am not going to worry, though. I figure that any time I am writing is a good time, and writing about depression is a great way to self therapize, to remove stigma, and to perhaps help someone else who may be depressed and reading this to realize that they are not alone, there is hope, and that it needn’t be any more of a burden than it is already.
Why am I depressed? What a perfectly legitimate question for which I have no real answer. I am still working that out in my own mind, and in the overstuffed chair at my therapist’s office. (I tend to eschew the couch because it seems a bit too cliche.) I don’t know exactly why I am depressed.
The easy answers are of course: (genetic) brain chemistry, and traumatic life experiences. As we now know, thanks to medical science, our brains are finely tuned lumps of mush that run on electricity generated by the transfer of electrons through chemicals. Or something like that. I am no neurologist. But, these electrons are delicately transferred, and the chemical solutions and mixtures must be precisely balanced. Imbalance them, and then you’ve got missed signals, wrong signals, and all manner of unseemly cross firing and mental short outs. The result is known as a mental health disorder. This can just happen. Or, it can be made to happen. Violence, aggression, abandonment, neglect, abuse, stress, hostility, and other similar events can knock the chemical balance of the brain off kilter. Anyone could be walking down the street and have a wire come loose, or they can be hit and have one knocked loose. Genetics plays some role in this, as a predisposition towards depression can be inherited just like alcoholism can be passed on to the next generation. This is why alcoholics run in families and depression just sighs and watches the family stare out the window. One of my grandfathers was treated for depression, both of my parents were/are, and I am. Good chance that if I have kids, one of them might. But, of my siblings, not all of them seem to be affected. My mother’s depression was almost entirely as a result of trauma, my father’s was a bit of both. Mine certainly seems to be mostly trauma with a hint of genetics.
But that doesn’t really explain why. Science can tell me how, psychology can tell me what that looks like, but why is a question for a god. I don’t happen to believe in a god, so why becomes a question to simply be asked of the universe and left unanswered. Why did Steve Jobs go in the direction of computer hardware design and not mathematics? Why did Ghandi become a peace activist? Why did Mother Teresa join the Catholic church and move to India? Why did Alexander feel a need to conquer the world? Why am I depressed? Life is unbelievably complex and interconnected. I can tell you about abuse, I can tell you about fear, I can tell you about religious persecution (in that religion persecuted me) but that doesn’t tell the whole story. Many people are abused in some fashion, and not all of them end up paralyzed by depression. All of them need therapy, but some move past their abuse rather quickly, all things considered, and lead fulfilled, self-actualized lives. A lot of people reject a life of oppressive religion to embrace a freedom and a happiness that never looks back. So why did those things so effectively captivate me? Other people have genetic predispositions to a great many ailments and afflictions that never materialize. Not everyone in an alcoholic family becomes an alcoholic. So why do I get drunk on despair? Why me?
Why?
At the moment, I am not angry when I ask that, I am not screaming out to a god. I am not in despair. That could be because depression robs me of an ability to actually feel much of anything, but right now I am also very curious. I know some reading this, and who know me but not intimately, are very curious. “Really, Phil? How is it that you are depressed?” and, honestly, I ask that question of myself fairly often.
I fall into the same trap that snares people who have no idea what depression is or how it works. They wonder: “ok, you know you are depressed, why can’t you just snap out of it? why can’t you start being happy and get over it? why can’t you pull yourself up by your bootstraps and be a man/woman?” Heh. If only it were that easy. But it isn’t. Most days, I am powerless. My therapist Julia is helping me to take back my power, to exert it over my life, but that is like teaching a paraplegic to walk. It takes monumental effort, time, and patience. I can’t just be happy. I have to learn what happy is, and learn how to be it. And, for the record, nobody ever pulls themselves up by their own bootstraps. The whole idea is complete nonsense and is a cruel, evil philosophy. Everybody gets help to do almost everything in this life. The bootstraps are a lie.
I know some reasons why I am depressed. I know some of how it works. But I don’t know why I, in particular, won the mental unhealth jackpot. And I can do nothing about it without help.
Today’s monologue is all over the place, and a bit unfocused. Today I am only half there. Here. Whatever: point being, this is depression: sometimes I just can’t think.
Sigh. I am depressed.
a simple man 