A Letter [jessi g]

Note: the following is written to a fictional person. Any resemblance it bears to the reader is unintended. Many people close to me have struggled with depression, and my response has not always been healthy, helpful, or compassionate. I hope you’ll forgive some of the cluelessness expressed in this piece, and see it as honest processing from a friend struggling in the dark.

a letter:

I know you’re struggling to cope with every morning. You lay in bed watching the light filter in through the window shades, and it’s impossible to consider facing the day.

Of course, you know I’m a fixer, and I’d love nothing more than to take whatever’s broken or unhappy in your life and make it better. To ease your troubles.

The anti-depression medication commercial that plays on the radio informs me that you can’t “just snap out of it”, but that’s not what I was expecting, anyway. I’ve had my own down times. But they have been short seasons, not like the epic battles you face, day in and day out. You don’t believe me when I tell you I know how to put myself in your shoes.

Your response is to roll your eyes and say, “well alright for you”, which is really just another way of writing me off. After all, reasonably happy people couldn’t possibly have any insight to your experience.

And while we’re on that topic, I hate that sense of superiority I get from you. You’re using depression as a reason to feel different or special. I could give you a hundred reasons to feel so, and none of them involve shutting the world out and refusing to cope. Things like your deep compassion, especially for those who are hurting; your sunny smile, which I have not seen in months; your sharp wit and your insight into other people.

I hate watching you give up on yourself, especially when it’s such a false limitation. There’s no reason in the world that you can’t be or do everything you once wanted, except that you’ve hit this glass ceiling--a barrier visible only to you. You feel stuck, and can’t move forward. “I can’t meet you for lunch today,” you text me. “It’s my depression again.” Your depression. You call it that like it’s a pet, or a child. Like the school called again and asked you to come get it because it was acting up in class, and the teacher sent it to the principal’s office. I wonder what would happen if one day, you decided not to answer the call.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re faking it. Like you need to have some kind of drama in your life to seem worthwhile to yourself. If you don’t have two guys fighting over you, or co-workers lying about you to your boss, or trouble with your family, you’re not important enough for people to pay attention to. You can’t blame me too much for asking--is it possible you’re blind to that pattern? I swear each of your relationships last about as long as a menstrual cycle. A giggling flirtatious peak followed abruptly by a week of tears and chocolate.

I know it’s not that simple. There are forces at work in your life--things that have happened to you that weren’t in your control. I know, too, that when a beast like depression gets hold of you, all of your perspective disappears, and you can only see how big and insurmountable the mountains in your life are. I know you feel ringed in and overwhelmed.

I wish you could hear from me right now, because what you really need to know is, nothing you feel is true. Like an addict, you feel inexorably drawn to the thing that’s killing you. Maybe there’s a sick, self-sabotaging element to your behavior—like you somehow deserve less goodness or happiness than the rest of us, and so you’re going to keep yourself locked in the same abusive cycle.

You and I both know that most of the shit in your life didn’t just happen to you--you chose it. It’s a sickening realization, one you’re tempted to run from. I can hear you asking, “Am I really that f*cked up?” But I hope, once you get over the shock of it, that it brings you to a shining conclusion: that you do have a choice.

Every breath you take is a conscious decision to keep living, and on some level if you’re doing that, you must believe that this can’t last forever. Please believe that it can’t last forever.

I never give up hoping that, if you can’t hear this from me, maybe you’ll someday be able to take it from someone. And when you do, I hope it provides you with a glimpse of the way out.