Depression's a Motherfucker, Huh?
TW: depression
This newsletter was supposed to go out three days ago and be about something else entirely, but I was too depressed to write it. There were countless nights when I promised myself I'd get up early to work on it, but when morning came, I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. I tried to do it last Monday, but I picked a meaningless fight with my boyfriend instead (the same thing happened on Thursday, too, and then again on Sunday). And for the last two weeks, every time I even came close to sitting down to do it, I felt so overwhelmed that I slammed my computer shut before I could write a single word.
So instead of being an essay about how my dog saved my life, this week's ramblings are all about depression. Because if you've ever been depressed, you know when it hits it is all-consuming, and makes it borderline impossible to do anything besides sit around and spiral. Sometimes, I mix it up and get wine-drunk while sitting around and spiraling, but that's about as varied as things get in the midst of an episode.
I was first diagnosed with depression when I was 16, (along with a whole host of other mental health issues that I'm sure you'll learn all about if you continue to follow this newsletter), which is to say that I've been dealing with it for as long as I can remember. It's not an "all the time" type of thing—it comes and goes—but man, when it hits, it hits.
After 15 years of managing these ups and downs (which my parents used to think were just "Gemini-inflicted mood swings"), I've developed a sort of Spidey sense that clues me into when an episode is coming on. I stop calling my family members, sleeping, and responding to texts, then start canceling plans, spending money I don't have, and picking dumb fights with the people closest to me (... I called my 8-pound dog a cunt last week)… all small things that, when taken on their own, don't seem like that big of a deal. After all—faking sick to get out of a dinner, "forgetting" to respond to something, and choosing to spend the weekend holed up at home ordering shit from Etsy don't scream "depressive behavior!!!" They more just (politely) say, "You're in your 30s now, babe."
But I know (I KNOW!) after a few days of sending my mom to voicemail and sleeping through my alarm because I was up until 4 a.m. trying to shut off my spinning brain with Gilmore Girls reruns, things are about to get real dark.
Three weeks ago, on the heels of an amazing holiday vacation, those Spidey senses started tingling. That first dark, gray morning back in New York, I woke up (late) and knew it was coming. So I went into overdrive doing all the things that typically make me feel better (that is, on top of the 50MG of Zoloft I already take every day and the therapist I meet with every week): I booked fun workouts, journaled my feelings, went on miles-long hot girl walks, and even painted my apartment to see if it would cheer me up. But nothing worked—not even snuggling with my "emotional support dog" (yes, I paid $250 to register her for that title during a previous depressive episode, and now that I think of it I may have called her a cunt because she was doing a shitty job at it).
Things just got... progressively worse. But because I was trying so hard to pretend that they weren't (I can't be depressed! My life is so good!! Plus, I've been going to dance class at 7 a.m. every day!), I didn't realize how bad they'd gotten—until (as always) what started as a few intrusive thoughts about how much I suck warped into something so big and all-consuming that it swallowed me whole. At first, it's easy enough to smile and act normal in the hopes that I can trick myself into being okay. But eventually, the smiling and pretending just gets too goddamn hard, so I just curl up and cry instead.
When I was growing up, the go-to advice in my household any time I was feeling this way was to "snap out of it." I hated it. But now, all I can do is repeat that same, unhelpful phrase to myself over and over, because it feels ridiculous to spend even a single minute being sad when my life is so objectively wonderful. I am exceptionally privileged (the amount of time and resources I'm able to dedicate to caring for my mental health is proof enough of that), have a dream job, a boyfriend I'm deeply in love with, an amazing support system of friends and family members who would drop everything to help get me out of this hole, and very few "real" worries to speak of. Seriously: What the fuck do I even have to be depressed about? Why can't I just snap out of it??????
Well, because that's not how depression works. It doesn't give a shit if you're happy or if you've got a cute dog and a well-decorated apartment and a good job and a nice Jewish boyfriend who you’re madly in love with. It doesn't need a "reason" to show up and fuck with you—it just lets itself in and wreaks havoc. It's completely out of your control.
As someone who struggles a lot with control (see: the literal name of this newsletter), not being able to tell my depression to fuck off on my own terms makes me feel like a failure. That, of course, puts me into a spiral of self-hatred, which inevitably makes my depression even worse. And yet if anyone, anywhere, voiced any of this to me, I'd tell them that all of this (*gestures widely*) was their depression talking. I know this, because I literally have said this exact sentence, in this exact context, to multiple friends in the past few weeks who are struggling with depressive episodes of their own. I've told them over and over and over again that it is not their fault, that they're loved and will get through it, and that they need to give themselves grace. So why is it so damn hard to take my own advice?
The good news is, I’m trying. And little by little, it’s working. I mean, I made it through an entire newsletter!! And that’s pretty cool. So for anyone who’s feeling the same way I’ve been, now or ever, I’ll leave you with the words that are far easier to believe when they’re coming from someone else: It’s not your fault. You are loved, you will get through it, and you need to give yourself grace.