THIS COLUMN WAS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN WRITER’S BLOCK IN THE April 4, 2018 EDITION OF THE CHRONOTYPE, RICE LAKE, WISCONSIN.
Imagine a wall of flame, sure death to pass through it. It stands between you and everything this life has to offer—joy, relationship, knowledge of oneself, spiritual awakening, your children’s laughter, your spouse’s touch.
You scan the room and all you see are flames. Heat and pressure build around you, forcing you to take action because the pain is just too real, too excruciating. The only way out is through, sudden death, but also sweet relief—relief from a body that feels so much, too much.
The thought settles in that your loved ones, who can see you through the flames, are also suffering. They can’t bear to see you burn to death slowly, dying while you are living. And you don’t know how to help them except to disappear into the flames.
You see, depression is despairingly lonely. People suffering from depression long for understanding, love and being in space with anyone else, but themselves. You are emotionally absent, you do not feel selfish or selfless or yourself at all. It is a complete absence of feeling all together, dangerous apathy.
And feeling that way is exceptionally shameful. We, as a society perpetuate that shame. It’s a beautiful day, why can’t you see this? You have a beautiful life, why are you sad? Smile, it’s not so bad. The depressed person is a walking contradiction, and they know it.
I tried to kill myself 14 years ago as a 22-year-old woman. I have been told that I’m crazy, insane. I’ve been told in a moment of blazing anger that “You should’ve finished the job,” and “You were only seeking attention because you are a narcissist.” It has been exponentially exploited, by myself and others into other personality disorders, because full-blown crazy is easier to dismiss.
If I’m crazy, then in a heated custody battle, losing time with my children is warranted. If I’m crazy, I’m not a good mother or wife. These are the lies our culture has perpetuated, and have been the direct arsenal in my own life. And the punishment continues for many more like me, because the majority of society is too ignorant and scared to dive in and learn—to stand up for better understanding and resources, to be there for each other.
In a culture that’s looking for quick fixes, the narrow pharmaceutical-only address to depression and suicide has become dangerous. We are told to medicate and hide our sorrow from the rest of the sunny world—an exhausting, self-annihilating and dangerous practice. We hear that a part of who we are, depression, is unwanted, and we don’t know how to separate ourselves from it or talk about it. Medication is the medical communities’ answer equivalent to “well here, just pull yourself up by the bootstraps,” when it’s only a piece of the solution.
With help, medicinally and professionally and surrounding myself with loving, gentle people, I have learned to see depression for its positive potential, but I had to have some distance from that very dark place 14 years ago. It has become familiar, a part of my being created in God’s own image—not an abomination, but an asset. It anchors me to a place that allows me to see and love myself wholly, in spite of my flaws. Darkness is my friend.
The shame that I let attach to that part of me no longer exists, but it does for so many. Human beings are designed for relationship, a shared journey through life. Logic does not penetrate depression, understanding does, touch does. Don’t leave depressed people alone. Don’t try to talk them out of it, just sit silently in a room or on the phone and say I am here, and then be there. Touch is powerful. Hold a hand in silence. Place an arm around a shoulder. Know that the person you love is not trying to hurt you. They want to connect, but a disease is inhibiting them from doing it. Deep understanding illuminates the emergency exit in that flaming room. If you have someone meet you behind the wall, you can then take their hand and let them lead you to safety and love, one gentle step at a time.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 