When I was in Philadelphia a few weeks ago my mother mentioned something that left me rather puzzled. Apparently, she had been talking to my sister about me, catching her up on a few things (remember, no talking in six years. That part is crucial here). I guess she had mentioned to her that for many years, I had suffered from depression. Needless to say, this shocked my sister.
Apparently, to others in my life, this comes as a sideswipe. I’ve had more than a handful of people tell me over the years “oh, I would have never guessed that,” with reference to my emotional status. Somehow, for some reason, the fact that I suffered from depression for years and was suicidal comes as a great shock to many I know. I can’t figure it out. How could it consume so much of my own life, but not be reflected to those I know?
As I just reread that last paragraph, it sounds so contrived. I shirk from the throngs of people who latch on to the claim of depression. Not to devalue their states of mind, but perhaps out of cynicism I think many people’s idea of depression is feeling sad for no reason, and a handleful of pills will solve it. So when I say that I suffered from depression, it is with the most serious regret and embarassment. I do not wear it proudly as a badge, status of club membership or even affirmation that I’m human and still “feel.”
See, my depression didn’t arise from anything discernable. No great tragedy or definitive happening caused it. Like a creeping fog, it swallowed me quietly over the years. If you believe in emotional makeup belonging in any part to genetics, then my family fits the bill perfectly. Like Ryan Adams, I was “born in an abundance of inherited sadness.” Almost every member has struggled with it for the grand majority of their life, and all to a greater extent than most Americans (I believe). And as far as I know (for me at the very least), no medication has ever made it go away.
Still, it strikes me as odd that people that I know (and even more so, know well) can’t recognize this element of my personality. Perhaps because of the embarassment, but to me it seems glaringly obvious. I’m not as surprised that people don’t know about my suicidal period, but I don’t think it’s too far of a stretch to see it. Truth is, for several years I was suicidal. Intermittantly, through my last 2 years in high school, and a few in college, this stalked me. I never went as far as the planning stages, but it was way more than just a passing thought. But how could this not make it to the outside? Was it not evident in my art? Have you ever talked to me? I know I never spoke of it with anyone, but still…
I feel rather betrayed by the fact that friends do not know this about me. Perhaps it’s unrealistic. Perhaps its my own self that I should be upset with, for hiding my true emotional state so convincingly that I’m perceived as stable and happy. I don’t know. I’m not even sure why it’s taken me so much by surprise, but it has.
It’s easier for me to speak of it all in retrospect. For the past two years (to the month), I’ve been in depression remission of sorts. My tendencies will always be there, genetic and not. But I’ve learned to help myself through in other ways, and am also just plain blessed for the reprieve. But it’s still something that I fight off daily…that impending, relentless march of saddness and pain.
But the question still nags me: am I an emotional con-man or do people just not know me that well?
