What if Depression does define me?

I’m sure I’m not the only one whose seen the face-book posts, or other such things telling people you shouldn’t say I’m depressed because Depression doesn’t define you.

I have SAD, or seasonal effective disorder, or as I often call it, seasonal depression. For much of the year I operate on a pretty good emotional scale, but as the days get shorter, and the nights longer, and my sleep worse, I operate worse and worse.

I’ve learned to cope fairly well. Most of the time.

It’s been almost four years since I’ve seriously contemplated suicide. Which isn’t as long as most people would think.

Almost four years ago, on a dreary, wet, winter day I stood on a bridge, and stared down at frigid water, horrifically tempted. I hurt, physically, my back had been injured, movement hurt, I was in a spell of hating my job, and the way out, the release, the idea of a physical numbness that matched my emotional lethargy was more appealing than I like to admit. Even now.

I don’t know how long I stood there. I argued with myself. Argued it’d get better, that things weren’t quite as bad as it seemed. But it didn’t work. Those arguments weren’t why I stepped away why I walked back to my apartment and called my mom.