Soul crushing fear is a lethal cog in the grand machine of masculinity. Here are some ways to face it.
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“An Episode.” That’s what many of us call them, or what we’re taught to anyway. It’s as if we’re referring to sitting in front of the television to catch 30 minutes of M.A.S.H. Or Gilligan’s Island. A Depressive Episode has the very real potential to be lethal and should be treated as such in every single case. We aren’t just having a few rough minutes. What we feel is far worse than that.
I’d rather call it something scarier. As a matter of fact, much of the language used when referring to the mentally ill attempts to make light of it. If things are going well, it doesn’t mean I’m cured. A more appropriate description is to say that my depression is in remission. I can’t just wish it away. Waiting it out, as if we’re just biding our time doesn’t work. It isn’t an episode, it’s a war being waged inside our minds. When we sit back and wait all we’ve done is capitulate to the voices, letting them win and forfeiting our lives.
When cancer comes back after remission, it’s called a recurrence and people are encouraged to fight, to battle on. When depression comes back, as it almost always will, we’re encouraged to smile, get a little more exercise, and to think positive thoughts or find God. A recurrence isn’t that easy. If it was I wouldn’t be typing this from bed, desperately wishing I could curl into a ball and sleep hidden away from everyone until…if…it passes.
The fear becomes an integral cog in the depression machine grinding away at my psyche. Slowly it consumes me, the voice of fear behind every whisper in my mind.
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If it passes. That’s really my biggest fear. A few hours is a piece of cake. A day or two I’ve learned to endure and battle through with little disruption. More than that and the fear creeps in and takes root. The fear becomes an integral cog in the depression machine grinding away at my psyche. Slowly it consumes me, the voice of fear behind every whisper in my mind. “What if this time it doesn’t stop. What if I just wear down. What if it never goes away. How long will I be able to endure.” On paper they appear to be questions. In my mind, they sound sinister, statements crafted specifically to break me.
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I’m still here to tell my story. For now I’m winning, but stuck here in this recurrence, I don’t know for how long. I’m tired. I’m tired of this endless cycle. I’m tired of this two week fight with the squatters I’ve allowed into my mind. I’m tired of going to work every day and desperately trying to fake my way through. I’m tired of my family paying the price for my inability to cope. I’m tired of seeing failure in every decision I’ve made and tired of the paralysis that it causes on all future decisions.
“Are you OK?”
Never has a more loaded question been uttered. Even when it’s obvious that I’m not, the temptation is there to answer in the affirmative. Prior to answering, I have to measure my response. Is this someone who really means it? Do I want to deal with the consequences of being honest? Have I over burdened them with my emotional instability already? Often, the easy answer is “I’m fine, just tired.”
Silence became the norm and I simply quit engaging with anyone when I wasn’t feeling “right.”
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I’m not trying to brush those people off. I’m trying to spare us both a very uncomfortable conversation. Occasionally, and to a very select people, I answer truthfully. “I’m not going to kill myself tonight, but I’m not OK.” Those people are crucial to my support network, and are not necessarily my closest friends. The only thing they share with me is knowledge. They know how I feel. They have been there…here…before. They know not many words will change how I feel and they needn’t say anything. It’s enough knowing they understand.
That’s really the other thing about a recurrence: isolation. I am alone, even in a house full of family and pets, I am alone. The solitude is both chosen and crushing. “Don’t take your attitude out on me (us, them, him, her…) has been a common mantra. Though forcing me into silence, they were right. I shouldn’t take my uncontrollable moods out on other people. Silence became the norm and I simply quit engaging with anyone when I wasn’t feeling “right.”
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Depressive recurrences are terrifying. They have only two possible conclusions. We’ll either win or we’ll lose. A loss… Well… A loss means the war is over. Losing is often the most attractive option though. Losing means peace. Losing means we’ve ended the pain and isolation. Losing means the cycle is finally over. Losing also means giving up on the chance that life will ever be better.
Why go on then? Why continue to beat ourselves bloody when sweet release can be so much more attractive?
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A win means we continue to live our lives, such as they are, until next time. Winning means we continue to endure life rather than live it if only in the hope that one day we awake and feel better. It means continuing to gamble and bet against the house. How many times can you be beaten and still fight the good fight? Five? Fifty? Hundreds? Thousands?
Why go on then? Why continue to beat ourselves bloody when sweet release can be so much more attractive? Because there are moments of blindingly bright light in the darkness. There are times when, seemingly by chance, life sends happiness your way. Catching a moment in your child’s life when your pride in them beams too bright to ignore. Time in the comforting arms of your significant other. The infectious laugh of a toddler. A pet with a sense that something is wrong and won’t leave your side. Music that helps you forget for a little while. The ability, however fleeting it may be, to let go and find joy.
Life is meant to be lived full of love and happiness. Momentary lapses in our misery keep us hopeful even when it feels as though hope is lost. Recurrences are soul crushing, and the fear that follows is as debilitating as the rest of the disease. Is my depression the same as someone’s cancer? No, but you know what? My depression isn’t the same as the depression others suffer either. Just because it isn’t the same doesn’t mean it isn’t lethal.
I cling to hope because it’s the only treatment I have. When I lose that hope, I no longer have the ability to fight and then my disease will have killed me.
Also by Shawn Henfling
Inside The Prison Of My Mind | I Refuse To Babysit My Children | I Think Of Suicide Like You Think Of Changing Jobs | The Suicide Note I Never Left |
Photo Credit: Always Shooting/flickr
Thank you for sharing your feelings. As I read your words, I felt as if I were the one writing. You hit the nail on the head. The sad thing is that people who do not suffer from our disease word never click the link to read your article even if a loved one does, or they wouldn’t think to like a page on fb about mental illness to even get a chance to read your words That’s what is wrong with society today. People are so self absorbed that if it isn’t affecting them on a daily basis they… Read more »
“The solitude is both chosen and crushing.”
It’s the push-pull. You feel bad, afraid you are doing harm to loved ones because you are distant, and desperately lonely at the same time.
Yeah. I know that.
Thanks Cabot. Knowing a little about your own battle it’s nice to know you can empathize.
Such a good piece. An admirable, arresting blend of great writing and utter honesty. Honest that is so very relatable. Thank you for brining to life what you endure, what I’ve endured, and what silent, invisible others do too. There’s no doubt your truth is helping others.
Thanks for your support Amy. The writing has been so therapeutic for me, and much of my motivation is selfish. I’m trying desperately to exercise the demons from my mind. Knowing that it helps others to feel a little less alone in their struggle keeps me going though. When more of us can speak up and speak out, maybe we can save a few lives.