The Difficult Conversations Depression Forces Me To Have With Myself
It’s 9p.m. Saturday night.
Despite a catastrophically bumpy week brought on by the discontinuation of one of the anti-depressant drugs I’d been on for the past year or so, things have been going pretty well.
Yesterday, my wife and I collected our visas from the Hungarian embassy. We’re going on our first European vacation in December.
In the room adjacent, my wife — who is in her third year of studying medicine — is hitting the books hard in preparation for a big test on Monday.
I know that she has her headphones on, and I’m grateful for that because it means that she can’t hear my sobs, my humiliating, pathetic sobs.
I don’t even know why I’m crying. I hardly ever do. I felt so goddamn good today, even going to the gym and getting some studying of my own done for the upcoming exam cycle.
But, by 3p.m., all the color had drained from my day, leaving the world sickly pale and anemic. It’s a monochrome nightmare.
Once again, depression is forcing me to have a very difficult and unpleasant conversation with myself.
Once again, I’m left facing the hollow-eyed wraith in the mirror and saying: hey, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re not getting better.
And I’m angry and I’m disappointed and I’m deflated and I’m tired. Wrestling with this dark, malevolent thing is exhausting, and with every round it takes a little more from me to stay in the fight.
I’ve been depressed for around 20 years now and, in that time, my dark companion has compelled me to have many an unwelcome talk with myself, saying things like:
Look, bro, I know you’ve been taking your meds like a trooper for two years now, but they ain’t doing shit. Next!
And:
Charlie-me-boy! Well done for sticking with a shrink for so long. You didn’t think you could do it, did ya? Here’s the thing, though, you’re still not getting any better.
And my personal favorite:
Hey man. I think it’s time you faced the possibility that I might be treatment resistant. So I guess I’m here to stay. Cool? Cool.
So, to summarize: my depression is kind of like the ne’er-do-well friend who shows up unannounced and promises to just crash on your couch for a night or two.
Yeah. We all know how that story usually plays out. The SOB is already wearing my slippers and monogrammed bathrobe.
