What It’s Like to Be Depressed
Note: This is a snippet from a moment inside of the head of the depressed version of myself. I wrote this to allow others to understand what that blackhole can feel like when one is trapped inside of it. This story oscillates between fiction and non-fiction depending on the day. As anyone with depression might be able to relate, thoughts of ceasing to exist do not necessarily mean suicide contemplation, but rather, can be oddly comforting in the face of the overwhelming. For those who are feeling this way, today, know that you are not alone. I chose to share this because there is no shame in it. If you are feeling particularly pained, do let others know. Loneliness can be lighter fluid for depression; at least it is for me.
I am an outsider, struggling in my own land, in my own house, with my family. It is like the inversion of Capgras Syndrome, where you believe aliens have replaced your loved ones, only I wonder where I have gone. I am a poor man’s cloven viscount. He was broken into two by a cannonball that hit him square in the heart while fighting against the Turks. His two halves, one virtuous, the other vicious, each unbearable to others roamed freely and separately.
I am not free. My able body must constantly drag along the dregs, a useless siamese counterpart.
I have an elated, excited, curious, brilliant, empathetic daughter who has bright red curls that stick out along the sides, parallel with the ground, and pale blue eyes that are expansive and if I stare into them long enough, startling, and who told me the other night that she has a “fancy butt-crack.” And who also has a slight nipple obsession. When I emerged from the shower one night, she said, “You shower, Mama? You wash your nipples?” She told my 66 year old mother in law that she loves her outfit, her big knees, and her nipples, too. She is a strange and lovable little alien, who has come to earth to show us all how to live and love and squeal (with joy). She has come here to show us “The Way.” She is my savior and I wait for no other. She belly-laughs as she dives into a bed full of seven stuffed puppies, and as our real puppy licks her tiny toes. She does urgent somersaults around the living room crashing into furniture, and runs backwards while naked and screaming, “Eyes closed run! Eyes closed run!” She gasps when she sees the moon appear in the sky, still a celestial wonder to her. On walks she stuffs rocks and acorns and dandelions into her pockets and when those are full, she shoves them into bags, into buckets, into her pudgy fists.
She is full of the earth — overflowing with its offerings, however banal. She lays each out one by one on the carpet when we return. She admires each, cradles each, places each in particular orientations. I never knew a rock could be upside down, before she came along.
She stares into my eyes in the morning and whispers into my ear, “It’s all here, Mama. It’s all here.” And when I am sad, she pats my head gently and says, “It’s OK, Mama. It’s OK.”
And when she falls she wails. She inhales and gathers up all the sorrow and pain into her belly, she pauses, and then she opens her mouth and purges the blaring excruciation through her mouth; she is a siren warning us all of the fragility of order. Her body tense and contorted, her eyes replaced with tight slits and streams, her nose sticky with snot, her mind desperately trying to process why the table, chair, concrete slab, why the universe has done this to her. And then just as quickly as it envelopes her, it dissipates. I kiss her scrapes; I distract her with a graham cracker.
As I hold her to my chest, feel her weight in my arms, feel her soft squishy arms around my neck, I pray, “Please just don’t end up like me, my love. Whatever you do, don’t end up like me.”
When I fall I do not wail. My wails are hidden whimpers that meander incessantly inside my head; without an exit, the parasites chew through my brain. My wails hang from my limbs like leaden weights. I must look a sad Christmas tree by now, or else, one of Giacometti’s bronzed men, walking but not moving, feet fused to the earth and cold to the touch.
And how do I explain the urgency? I want to grab these slippery seconds. I try with open hands to shove them into myself, greedily. I need all of them. I need my daughter’s every word. I need her every breath, sigh, observation, giggle. I live by these things alone. I swallow them. I bury myself in them. They anchor me to this earth.
And sometimes I want only to seal myself up inside of this time and suffocate, contently.
This is what it is like to be depressed:
My life happens before me and I bear witness only as a voyeur might, watching through a smudged window, my senses coated with a filmy grime that distorts and obscures every moment, every word, every touch. Or else I am wrapped in bubble wrap and can’t feel much of anything. Or else my skin has come off and I am one raw and exposed blanket of pain receptors and the act of simply existing is so overwhelming that I think I might … I think I might do it, tonight.
Lauren Tanabe is a freelance writer based in Detroit with a Ph.D. in Pharmacology and Molecular Signaling from Columbia University. She is currently looking for opportunities to tell stories that reflect the poetry and beauty inherent in science, as well as all things sad and humorous related to academia, motherhood, and found tucked into the random and ridiculous moments of everyday life.
