Essay 140: Depression: The Invisible Crippler

Close to 20% of the population in the USA is diagnosed with depression. If you’re standing with 4 other people, chances are at least one is depressed. Assuming it’s not you, can you tell who? My guess is that you can’t. 

I am very lively. I easily strike up a conversation. I smile a lot. I laugh often. I am fun! I can be too much for some people and elicit immediate distaste but, for the most part, it’s easy to like me. No one who talks to me would think that I’m depressed. 

I am physically healthy. I obviously care about and take care of my appearance. Good skin. Good teeth. Good bones. My limbs are intact. No cane. No wheelchair. No one who looks at me would think that I’m depressed.

And yet, unbeknownst to most people who interact with me, I am depressed. I am sick. I am handicapped.

Nothing in my life is to blame for this. My circumstances are ideal. No money problems. No relationship problems. I am not overworked nor overtired. Though I am overwhelmed. I don’t struggle with the things of life. I struggle with the very act of living. 

The mundane, the menial, the everyday. That’s my struggle. 

The being. That’s my struggle.

The little things that become distortedly huge in my chemically imbalanced brain, that’s my struggle. 

I spin out of control, into anger, then sadness, and finally shame. 

All consuming.

The experiencing of challenges, compounded with the judgment that comes after the experience. The pain of what is, compounded with the pain of knowing it shouldn’t be that way.  

Feeling powerless against the flood of emotions that can overtake me at the drop of a hat.  
Knowing what to do. Doing exactly the opposite. Regrets. 
Wanting to be somewhere else. Wanting to be someone else. Wanting to not be at all. 

I could drive the car off a cliff.
I could swallow all the pills. 
I could grab the gun and pull the trigger. 

I won’t!

A battlefield within that no-one sees. 
Raging monsters within that no-one hears. 

I am the victim and the offender. I am the warrior.

Fighting for my life against the invisible crippler. 

This is not new. It’s been my reality for years. Decades. At first it didn’t have a name. I mistook mental illness for a character flaw and tried to educate it away. 

I wasn’t imagining my problem but it was indeed all in my head and medication made it so much better. For over two years since, I have enjoyed peace. But now, something is amiss again. The battle is back in full force and, thankfully, I have a good army. A supportive husband. A resilient daughter. A knowledgeable medical doctor. A good psychiatrist. 

It’s time to plan and strategize and reach for the next most effective weapons. 

Telling you is part of the solution. I wouldn’t keep a broken arm a secret. I won’t keep this brokenness hidden either.

Darkness disappears when light shines upon it and this is my candle.