The truth is I don't have much I can rely on to keep me going anymore besides your trust and love. This is not anybody's fault, it is the nature of depression: it devours nearly everything that once provided pleasure. I've lived with it for 2.5 years now, and while it is not the paralyzing anaconda it once was, it still hisses in my ear -- and certain days it slithers back to strangle me again. Its very nature resists description, this is a major part of its power, but cliched metaphors can be surprisingly helpful.
I've managed to change the way I think in response to its attack. I am a much more positive, thoughtful, compassionate person in my thoughts than I ever was before. I have to be, to be otherwise would be unlivable. But what depression does to me now is to prevent turning thoughts into action. Depression tells you to stay in bed, you must learn to say no. Depression tells you to stay inside and be alone, you must force yourself out and about. Depression tells you to ignore your friends because you can no longer keep up with even their basic conversations, you must trust that your friends will understand. Depression reminds you that what you once felt joy, even beautiful exuberance from experiencing -- excited dinner conversation, a night drive with good music, dancing with friends, getting to know new people, the taste of your favorite food, the smell of sex, the magnetic pull of a perfect novel -- is no longer possible. You must tell your self that maybe this time will be different, and when such moments do come, you must capture and store them and use some memory of happiness to make the experience worth keeping, so that when you remember it in a happier future you can perhaps insert the joy you should have felt. On my good days now, I can feel the goodness, but it is muffled, like music through a door.
Depression, for me, doesn't tell me these things in my mind. Or it doesn't feel that way. Depression reminds me with a punch to the gut, a wave of fatigue and powerlessness that overcomes and makes one feel the depths of hopelessness. For a moment. And then you use your mind to fight it, and move on, despite the weakness. The best example in literature I can point to is actually from J.K. Rowling, who after a severe bout of depression herself created the Dementor character, those hooded creatures that "drain the peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them." They are soul-suckers that leave their victims in a vegetative state in which there is no recovery until they "just exist" -- a state sufferers of depression often find themselves reduced to.
I've had to find my own Patronus charm, "a magical manifestation of happiness and good will" to defend against this onslaught, and I've gotten to be quite good at it. I can summon good will towards others, and I've become a kinder person. I try to put good things out into the world. But also, I work to overcome long held fears. I try to make use of the time, so that it does not feel completely lost.
There is a danger of letting life become absurd while in this state. For a long time, I existed in a state of absurdity. I had lost the ability to concentrate, and yet I found myself interviewing for some of the most prestigious grad school scholarships and programs, knowing that if I had received them I would have no way to do the work. I had lost the ability to feel pleasure (or even lust!), and yet I found myself finally brave enough to search for love. I had lost the ability to fully enjoy the presence of my friends and family, and yet I found myself reaching out to them more than ever before. The impossibility of living as you once lived, and the expectation of the world around you that you must -- given the largely invisible nature of depression -- is absolutely absurd. The fight against it is absurd. Life becomes absurd. But it goes on, and absurdity brings its own dark form of giddiness.
My goal for my trip home is simple. I want to explore places no one in my family tree have ever had the opportunity to explore, and meet interesting people along the way. There is the beautiful, terrible understanding that despite my current battle, I am incredibly blessed: no one I know of at home has the opportunities I have. My freedom is the culmination of the hard work and hopes and dreams of myself, but also parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents before me. Amazingly, what I want to be is clear: a playwright. I have so much opportunity, support, possibility, and now finally, focus. And I feel plenty of gratitude. And I know I will defeat this, and when I do I want to look back on this time and feel like I made the most of it, and that I grew as a person. I want to be proud of myself.
This is what you should understand before you read the story of my ride home. My tone for the remainder of this blog will not be this bleak, or even this earnest. It's going to be entertaining. Hell, it's going to rock. Your protagonist, against his will, has become a nearly fearless person, and he has plans to make a fabulous journey. It would give me comfort to know you are coming along for the ride, to know that the good things that can sometimes feel wasted on me can be enjoyed, even vicariously, by my friends. Please, comment when you can, let me know you're reading. And thank you for reading this, it helps more than you know. I promise, this is going to be fun fun fun.
