burtlo

X. Fighting for one's sense of self

In my youth, manic depression was explained to me, at best, as someone prone to "episodes" every two years. They were the equivalent of a modern day werewolf. Losing all control of their mental faculties, sociopaths, they would move through society committing base sexual acts, engaging in rampant spending, and violently attacking those that stood in their way. They would destroy everything of importance and value around them in that moment. Their life essentially reset biennially.

It wasn't until later that I came to know depression not in these simplistic, after-school special terms.

Depression is nefarious, insidious, and above all subtle.

It is not enough that depression undermines the sufferer's self confidence. It successfully takes the life of the victim by eroding the very social structure of which they stand. Driving far stretched chasms between the sufferer and those closest to them. Destroying their best chances to recover, to find rebalance.

I stood with my wife in our union: Tall, strong and close. Before the end, I lay folded, weak, and staring her down across an immeasurable divide.

I made a commitment and ultimately a great sacrifice.

Even now when I type those words I feel as though they are hollow. I still feel as though their was more that I could have done. If I had been just a little more patient, a little more understanding, a little more loving, a little more...

And that's how I fell under the monstrous gait of depression. My myopic view felt as though I could turn the tide of a great war through the small victories in our daily struggles. What I was doing was treating the symptoms and aiding and abetting behaviors that would later spell demise for recovery. Depression is a poisoning at the source.

I feel strongly that depression parallels the horrors of an addiction. Addicts convincingly plead for another chance, more sympathy, more time, and more help.

Those that constantly attempt to find the addict medical and psychiatric help are friends. Those that walk away are using strong language to show the addict all that they are losing, as a result of their choices, are teachers. Those that remain and find themselves literally sitting on their friends for weeks until they sober up are saviors.

There are no heroes in depression. Those that seek medical and psychiatric treatment for them are the unjust. Those that leave are the selfish. Those that remain without making personal sacrifices are the uncaring. It is because every step can be doubted. Each choice feels as though it could be the wrong one. Depression is powerful because it feels so counter intuitive to fix.

I lost myself.

Many times previous I had felt the similar pull as if the bottom had fallen out, only to find my feet firmly planted. Now. This time. I could not feel my feet. I was falling. I started my battle with depression.

A book I later read, described it as Depression Fallout. Likening the invisible, pervasive effects of depression to that of radiation is catchy and... accurate.

I began to shutdown.

* * *


I rebounded months later when acknowledgments were made to what was happening. There is so much hope returned when it seems as though the answers lay ahead. And they seemed like they did for some time. Clear skies in the distance grew cloudy, but by then we had returned enough of ourselves that we were able to make it out alive. The relationship, however, was dashed upon the rocks.

Today, I fear depression's icky, dark tendrils more so than any amount of manifestation of horror. It is as if I have suffered through an ordeal of food poisoning and despite having my mental ability to stomach some of those tendencies in others returned to me, my body won't allow it.