Everyone Gets Sad Sometimes: This is What Depression Feels Like (TW: depression, suicide)
If I was the betting type, I would wager that the number one thing clinically depressed people hear from the uneducated masses operating as their “support systems” sounds something like, “everyone gets sad sometimes.”
I hear this a lot. “Everyone gets sad”, “you just have to let it go”, “If you just decide to be happy, you will be!”
But I’m not sad. I mean, yeah, sometimes I am, because it’s true that everyone gets sad sometimes. Sadness and depression aren’t the same thing, though. You can be sad, you can be depressed, you can be both or neither.
Depression isn’t sadness on steroids, either. Depression is a whole different thing, and if you haven’t had it, it can be a really hard thing to wrap your mind around. Hell, I’ve had it on and off since I was pre-teen, and when I’ve been doing really well for a while, it stops making sense to even me. “It can’t have been that bad,” I think.
It can be that bad, though, and hearing things like, “Everyone feels sad sometimes” doesn’t make it easier to live with. When you’re having trouble getting out of bed every day and all the people around you can say is, ”Everyone has bad days”, what you hear is, “Everyone has bad days and they handle them better than you. You’re whiny. You’re weak. You’re lazy. You’re worthless. What you’re dealing with isn’t a big deal, you’re just not strong enough to handle it.”
That’s a lot of negative feedback to get from one well-intentioned sentence, but that’s how depression works. Having depression is a lot like having mental termites- it eats you up from the inside. By the time other people start noticing there’s a problem, most of the damage has been done.
People aren’t (usually, because I think we all know that some people are dicks) deliberately minimizing the struggles of people with depression when they say things like, “if you just think positive…” or “I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow”. They’re honestly trying to be comforting, but mental illness is hard to understand. You can’t see it, you can’t measure it, you can’t give it timeline or prognosis, so “anxiety disorder” is answered with, “You worry too much.” “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder” inspires ”Just don’t do that anymore”, and when people hear “ADHD”, they suggest you should “just try harder”.
If it were as easy as that, if we could just stop worrying or stop engaging in compulsive behaviors, if we could be healthy by simply trying harder, why in God’s name wouldn’t we have done it already?
We haven’t done it because mental illness isn’t a choice. Saying someone has an anxiety disorder isn’t a fancy way of saying they worry a lot, “ADHD” isn’t synonymous with “lazy”, and being depressed is not the same thing as being sad.
I’m going to tell you what it’s like when I’m depressed. I feel like it’s important to point out that this is not my every day life. This isn’t even the majority of my life. The person I am when I’m depressed is completely different from the person I am when I’m healthy, and that’s how I know it’s a problem.
These are my experiences, not statistics out of a book or anything, so they’re not going to apply universally. Everyone experiences depression differently. For me:
Depression is disassociative. I start feeling like I’m watching my life through a television screen. It’s like the parts of me that are me are trapped inside my head, incapable of reaching out, not really part of the world around me. It can feel like someone else is living my life and I’m watching them do it. When I’m depressed, I become this whole other person, and the person I become is an asshole. The first time, I felt like I had lost everything good about myself, and I didn’t think it would ever come back. (I was wrong.)
Depression is isolating. The disassociation plays a part in this, I’m sure; even when I try to connect to other people, the sense that I’m not really there gets in the way. Even if it doesn’t, my douchebag brain is always there to feed me information like, “No one really likes you”. I start feeling horribly vulnerable; when people reach out to me it feels like pity; when they don’t, it feels like abandonment. Going out socially becomes painfully awkward because I feel like I am a burden that they shouldn’t have to bear.
Yeah. When I’m depressed, I feel like people are burdened by my presence at the movie theater, and I am ashamed of that. Depression is an asshole.
Depression is exhausting. When I’m depressed, my mind feels sluggish and I have trouble thinking through problems or figuring out puzzles. My body feels both heavy and weak, and it starts to require serious effort to do things like, “get out of bed” or “get off the couch”. I have trouble staying awake. Simple tasks become overwhelming, even impossible. I clearly remember the time I sat down and sobbed because there were two dishes in the sink, and I couldn’t put them in the dishwasher. I just couldn’t. Those two dishes were too much for me that day.
That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? That two stupid cups would bring me to tears. Just put them in the dishwasher, or put them off until later! But at the time, neither of those things seemed like an option. I recognized that was two cups and that it shouldn’t be that hard, but it was that hard.
When I’m depressed, I become incapable of being loving. I become short-tempered and touchy. Anything anyone says to me can lead to an angry outburst. This is where the disassociation really kicks in; I watch myself say horrible, cruel things to people who I love and I am helpless to stop myself. My mouth can be spewing poison, but on the inside, it’s like I’m pounding against a glass cage, screaming at myself to stop.
If that sounds uncomfortably scary, it should. It is. If it sounds crazy, it should. It is. And it gets worse.
Depression hurts. ”Depression” sad isn’t like “regular” sad. It’s not the sad that “everyone gets”. Depression sad feels like an enormous harpy dug its claws into my chest and tore half of it away, leaving the other half to fester and seep. Depressed sadness is agony. I feel it physically, I can’t breathe past it, and it feels like it will never stop.
Depression means that I can’t trust my own brain. My brain will say things to me like, “You’re never going to feel better.” “Your family would be better off without you, you’re just hurting them.” “You’re worthless, and you’ll always be worthless.” “Everyone knows you’re weak.” “No one really likes you, they just tolerate you.” And on, and on, and on, an unceasing flood of negative messages from my own brain. (It’s like a horror movie; you know, “The caller is inside the house!” Only the house is my brain, and the twist: The caller is also my brain.)
All the while I am hearing these internal messages, I am telling myself, “That’s not true, that’s the depression, these are lies.” The longer this goes on, the harder it gets for me to tell the difference, until eventually I can’t. Eventually, I start believing that the few positive messages I’m still holding on to are the lies, and that I’m hopelessly pathetic for believing them.
When depression gets like this, when it’s really, really bad, this is when I want to die. Not in a slangy “omg I’m so embarrassed I could just, like, DIE” kind of way, but in the way that says, “I can’t hurt like this anymore”. The way that involves making plans, finding ways that maybe my life insurance will still pay out or my kids won’t be as badly traumatized.
I’ve only reached this point once. I am terrified that I’ll end up there again.
When my illness reached this point, it’s wasn’t because I’m weak. I wasn’t being selfish or vindictive or giving up. (I hear these ideas about suicide a lot, and I can’t imagine they’re ever accurate. )
When I reached that place where dying seemed so much better than living another day, it was because I knew I was never going to get better. I didn’t just believe it, I knew it. I was always going to be this person that was mean to her husband and kids, that couldn’t connect with them emotionally, that couldn’t take care of them. My illness had infected every part of our lives. I knew I was hurting them, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I knew I was in agony, and that was never going to change.
When I was making those plans, I believed, with every ounce of my being, that dying was the greatest gift I could give my children. My sick brain had convinced me that if I killed myself, I would be protecting them.
If I had done it, I would have done it because I loved them so much.
I didn’t do it for two reason: because, when I was pregnant with my son, my best friend had called in tears and said, “I just read a story about a woman with postpartum depression that killed herself. Promise me you won’t ever do that.” I wasn’t very sick at that time, so it was an easy promise to make. It was not an easy promise to keep.
And I didn’t kill myself because I realized that if I did, my children wouldn’t understand. They would always believe that I didn’t love them enough to stay. I couldn’t do that to them.
I got better. My family healed. I got sick again (not as badly, thank the maker), and my family survived. I got better again.
I will get sick again.
Depression doesn’t just go away. That was the hardest lesson for me to learn when I was recovering. It can feel really hopeless, because you know even if you drag yourself out of it you’ll just end up back in the same place. For me, it’s terrifying when I’m doing well because I know it will be back, but I don’t know how bad it will be or how long it will last.
Depression is hard. It takes a wrecking ball to your life, sets fire to all your relationships, and breaks any internal mirror that shows you anything about yourself that is worthwhile.
Everyone does get sad sometimes.
That has nothing to do with depression.
Depression is a stupid, lying bastard and if you have it, it wants to destroy your life. If it can, it will kill you. All those messages my brain gave me about how good it would be for my family if I died were awful, poisonous lies. Killing myself would not have helped them or protected them; it would have broken them in ways that can’t heal. If you’re reading this and your brain is telling you the things my brain told me? Tell it to fuck off. And then, please, PLEASE call someone and tell them what you’re going through. If they can’t or won’t help, keep calling until you find someone who will. Try the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or any of the resources at suicidehotlines.net.
Posted on November 10, 2012, in Braining. Bookmark the permalink. 16 Comments.
I’ve been diagnosed as major depressive for the past few years. (I’ve had it my whole life. just went diagnosis.) It is practically indescribable. It’s physical pain like some invisible force pushing you into the ground. Everything moves slowly, the leaves on the trees blow in slow motion and you don’t even feel the wind on your face. You don’t see or hear people; just this strange choking fog. It’s dark and it wraps it’s tentacles around the ones you love and you have NO CONTROL.
I take medication and attend therapy. (I’ve *fired* a few therapists but I think trust issues are park of the package). I’m going to need these things for the rest of my life but if I didn’t have them I would’ve driven my car off of a bridge at one point. I dare some of those idiots that make comments such as; “decide to be happy”, “change your attitude”. There is no “life is what you make it” when it comes to this. Those people would be blowing their brains out on day three. That is if they have the energy to lift a gun in the first place.
My sixteen-year-old son said to me the other day, “The opposite of depression isn’t happiness, it’s hope. You know you’re depressed when you’ve lost all hope, and you know you’re getting better when you find it again.” It struck me as really true and saddened me that he understood it so well already.
(I stopped by from thebloggess because the title of the post on your comment felt relevant, and appreciated reading this very much. Your description of the disassociation is exactly my experience. I’ve never really tried to explain it before but I’ll remember your television analogy.)
Argh I wrote a long reply to you and then WordPress ate it. Goddammit.
ANYWAY. I’m glad it was helpful to you, because it was scary as hell to write, and this makes it worth it.
I just kept reminding myself that vulnerability = courage, and I wanted to be brave, didn’t I? Kind of like taking a kid to a dentist, except instead of cavities, it was emotional scars.
I just really want to do what I can to dispel the stigma surrounding mental illness, so that people don’t feel so alone. Less stigma means more education, more treatment, more survivors.
Okay, off my soapbox.
My kids are a bit younger than yours, but they’re aware that I struggle. I hate that it’s affected their lives, but at the same time I hope that it means they can be a little more compassionate toward people who are different. Hopefully it also means that if they have their own mental illness burdens to bear- which is likely, given our genetic history- they’ll have some idea what is happening to them and be able to seek help without shame. God, I hope so.
I nearly left a reply on your post about self-sabotage telling you that I had fallen in love with you, but I decided that would be really creepy of me, so I didn’t. But I so, so, so appreciate that you were brave enough to write both of those posts. All of those posts, really, because your post about your cat made me cry and your post about your daughter and Disneyland was the loveliest love letter from a parent to a child that I’ve ever read. You absolutely have the talent to make it as a writer if you can manage the sit-in-the-chair-and-get-it-done part. (I’m a former editor, so I don’t say that lightly — I worked with plenty of people who wrote books and earned a living as writers with less ability to evoke emotion. It’s a rare gift.)
As for your kids, yes, it makes a huge difference. My son is unfortunately stuck with the genetic predisposition, but he’s not afraid to talk about it and he has a much safer and healthier attitude than I did at his age. He hasn’t accepted any of my offered help (therapist, drugs), but I have faith that he knows it’s there and would if he truly felt he needed it. And I don’t see him turning to my various unhealthy coping strategies any time, despite the not-very-good role model.
Thanks again! I subscribed to your feed, so I’m sure you’ll see me again.
Not creepy at all! I love it when people fall in love with me. Of course, I’ve been repeatedly telling Jenny (the Bloggess) that I want to move in next door to her and be her best friend for like two years now, so I probably have a broken Creepy scale.
Thank you so much for your wonderful compliment
It totally made my day. <3
Oh! Also- I’m writing what your son said down and remembering it, because it’s perfect. Thank you.
Thank you for this. I’m sharing it with all my friends, some of whom can relate and some of whom can learn something. I think I’ve suffered from depression my whole life but was only diagnosed after I started grad school (was diagnosed with anxiety in undergrad). I never even considered that depression was lying to me (since I didn’t know I had it), and I still can’t wrap my head around the concept that I’m not a terrible person whose existence burdens everyone around me. It’s the only way of thinking that makes sense to me. I don’t know really know how to perceive myself “normally”.
So I love the way that you so bluntly and aggressively say things like, “Depression is a stupid, lying bastard”. I’ve had friends say it before but it’s somehow more meaningful coming from a stranger who doesn’t even know I exist: you’re not biased by your affection for me. Maybe if I hear it enough I will start believing it someday. <3
You are so welcome.
The thing I have totally learned from speaking openly about my illness is that it’s more common than I had realized and that it IS a lying bastard. Talking to other depressed people can be weird because I hear them say things that make no goddamn sense, and realize that I have said those exact same things.
I know you exist now, and I’m glad you posted.
Hugs
And the next time your brain tells you bad things about yourself, you tell it to fuck right off.
Wow! Thanks for writing this. You were very brave to post it. I always have a hard time explaining depression to people, even to therapists, but you did a very nice job.
I once had a therapist tell me “There are so many people in the world worse off than you. At least you aren’t battling cancer. Can’t you remind yourself of that?”
Another told me she had no sympathy for suicides. It was a selfish act that doesn’t deserve recognition.
Assholes.
From those comments, I’ve decided that even the mental health profession doesn’t really understand depression or how to help people who have it.
The pain of depression is physical. It’s staggering and breath taking and I can’t function because I’m just trying to stand upright and walk straight. I, too, have cried over two dishes in the sink. I’ve cried unable to drive my car to the store because it was too overwhelming. I’ve cried unable to vacuum the rug in my bedroom because I didn’t know where to start.
I’m reading more and more online where people are talking about depression. Maybe brave people like you will help the stigma fade. Maybe the light will go on for some and they can better understand friends and family with depression. I’m not sure I’m brave enough be one of those voices on the ‘Net. Maybe I’ll work my way up to it. Because in my heart, I want to set the world right so that people with depression aren’t stigmatized and don’t feel ashamed to admit what’s happening to them. We need therapists who don’t tell you “At least you don’t have cancer” and that suicides are selfish bastards.
Somewhere on Twitter someone asked why we don’t take casseroles to people going through a depressive episode like we do when people are sick or have other life crises. I think it’s a great idea. But you need to be tuned into your friends and family and know when they need a casserole.
Wow. You have had some breathtakingly bad experiences with therapists. I am so, so sorry. One of my closest friends is a therapist who has several close relationships with people who suffer from depression, and I know that even she doesn’t *quite* get it. Of course, she’d cut her own tongue out before she said anything like what was said to you.
I appreciate your compliments, even if the truth is probably closer to “I just like talking about myself a lot”. I am glad that it was helpful to you- that makes all the terror I had about posting it completely worth it. It was hard to put up, but I’d gotten tired of seeing things on Facebook about how you can think yourself out of depression and other bullshit like that.
As for being one of the brave voices on the net- you are, right now. Because someone is going to come along and read your comment and think, “There is someone else who has gone through what I have.” We’re creating a community, we’re letting people know that they aren’t alone, and they aren’t crazy, and that it isn’t their fault. That they can get better. And that’s huuuuge.
So thank you. <3
I, too, have depressive periods… and can SO relate to the fact that people just DON’T get it. I have general and social anxiety disorders too, and when I tried to tell my closest friends about it, provide them with links to information, they just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) get it. Some of them didn’t even try. Even my bf, who at least tries to understand the anxieties, can’t wrap his head around the suicide aspects. He didn’t know me back when I was that bad off, and whenever I talk about it, he minimizes it. He thinks that if I’d really been suicidal, I would have attempted it. Not just tried to plan it. He doesn’t get that I avoided driving alone, so I wouldn’t “accidentally” drive into a telephone pole at high speed. And he can’t understand how I can found solace in self-injury. I am in a much better place, and can manage my episodes better now… but they are still there, lurking like demons, ready to pounce with any lapse. I can totally relate to the fear that I will become that depressed again. Every time I have a setback, I worry if this is the time I go off my rocker again. And will I be able to pull myself back from the brink again. I ache for every person who has felt these feelings.
Thank you.
<3 You're welcome.
I suffer from agitated depression, so instead of worrying about the dishes in the sink, I just want to smash them into very small pieces. And then break every other dish in the house. I have to be VERY careful with my tongue because the “saying hurtful things” part is intense. My poor little internal editor earns his keep when I’m at my worst. I spend most of my time with my tongue clenched between my teeth. Strangely enough, I don’t have the suicide component, but I do hurt myself. Like the other day I was trying to make pancakes, but everything was going wrong. (It seems like “EVERYTHING” to me at those times, but it’s more like I was making a mess and the more agitated I got the worse the mess became). I picked up the hot griddle and threw it across the room. Unfortunately, the lava-hot batter ran down my arm and, instead of doing anything about it, I just sunk to the floor and sobbed. Luckily, the blisters are small.
For years, people just labeled me the guy with the occasional temper, but I so identified with what was going on inside of other people who were writing about depression. It took a brilliant therapist to show me that what I had was treatable and manageable. So let me add my thanks to you for sharing – for letting us know we aren’t the only ones attempting daily to crawl out of this pit that is so marginalized as “sadness”. Or in my case “anger”. It’s neither. It’s an illness and, like any other illness, it’s not your fault you are sick. But it sure helps to know you aren’t alone.
Thank you for this. Will try to make people read it so they’d understand me and my fears. I think I need a casserole, badly. Stay well, truly hope the darkness never gets to you again.
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