I haven’t seen the sun in three days. And for the 100th time this week, I think about ending it all. A slit to the wrist? No. Sharp objects scare me. But the pills upstairs… I could easily swallow 10 too many, fall asleep and never wake up. My eyes flit to an overhead light and focus dully on its brightness. None of it matters, I think. I am a dog, and someone should put me down.
My therapist tells me that half the population will suffer from depression or anxiety. I fall into that lucky percentage struggling with both— and believe me, more is not merrier. Still, I hide it well. Throw in a fake smile here, an “I’m fine” there. Depression is my burden. And yet I am not ashamed.
At first glance, I’m just a white girl from suburbia. Aside from the calories in my macchiato, my concerns are few. I have amazing friends. Loads of opportunity. And to the outside world, I have it all together. The reality is that I live in darkness.
One can easily understand why.
When the average Joe feels sick, he gets the sniffles and runs to CVS. I, on the other hand, endure an all-out mental assault. My mind goes rogue and shrieks that I’ll never get better. Instantly, my anxiety soars. For several days, the screams continue, reminding me of every possible escape. And as my world slowly fades to gray, so does the possibility of hope and any chance of healing. In this desperation, life becomes a daily hell and death a welcome escape.
This is a dangerous lie. I know because I’ve believed it.
It’s easy to write that suicide is never the answer. We’re reminded on posters and television commercials, told that someone cares and to call 1-800-GET-HELP. But in spite of all the logic, the severely depressed fails to bridge what he knows with what he feels. At first, he fights but scolds himself along the way. Why should I want death, he thinks, when I have X, Y, and Z to consider? Yet, by constantly rebuking himself, the depressed grows exhausted. Pain and fear begin to choke his sensibility. And as he gasps for hope, the depressed views suicide as a kinder mercy than slow suffocation. What he forgets is that others—family, friends, and doctors— can help break the chokehold.
I wish I could promise that his fight feels easy, but nothing strays farther from the truth. Rather, depression is a struggle of countless prayers. Tears. Exhaustion. Willpower. Pain. And true grit. But this battle, while uphill, is worth it.
I was diagnosed the day before Thanksgiving— a fact I’ve always found ironic. While everyone else indulged in the upcoming holidays, I struggled just to be. My existence had become a prison, my mind its warden and I the inmate. Consequently, I viewed everything behind bars of grayscale. I grew desperate to escape. I nearly tried. Yet, within this abyss, love saved me.
As the fibers of my body longed to die, I reflected on my life. My thoughts drifted through my trip to France, flitted through past Christmases and finally settled on something a friend texted me that week. “It’s hard to encompass why you matter to me,” he wrote. “You’ve been someone I could count on when I didn’t think I had anyone…I couldn’t imagine being here without you.” And in that moment, I knew I couldn’t end it. I had to live for him. For all of them.
Yet, the following month dragged on, and I disheartened. My mind continually posed the same question: what makes life beautiful? I searched in frustration for the answer, considering self-harm multiple times in the interim. And then one December night, I found my response through an unsuspecting Google search.
How to beat depression. I had suspected the usual advice: be active, socialize with friends or take medication if necessary. Instead, I discovered two unlikely figures. Their names shocked me.
Winston Churchill. Abraham Lincoln. Both suffered from severe depression that, at times, rendered them suicidal. Yet, in spite of their pain, these men became two of the strongest leaders the world has ever seen. Arguably, neither could have achieved their greatness without depression. Having experienced great emotional strife, Churchill and Lincoln could process and relate to the suffering around them. Darkness, therefore, would not deter them. And, as a result of their mental tenacity, both could do what others could not: inspire nations in periods of great sorrow.
The same applies to us. Without darkness, we fail to seek light. For this reason, I believe God uses the most broken people to accomplish incredible feats. In fighting our obscurities, we improve ourselves. We use our pain for good. And we move forward.
Admittedly, I can’t deny the anguish depression has caused me, nor ignore its mental scars. Yet, I am not weak, and my illness does not define me.
Rather, I am empathetic.
Driven.
Strong.
Because of my pain, I can help those around me.
Because of my pain, I understand true joy. I still struggle. Some days, the black clouds never lift. But if I have learned anything, it’s that hope exists even in the darkness. And because of this reason, life is beautiful.
If you’d like to speak to the writer of this piece about depression (or anything else), email AskVal@outlook.com.
*Name has been changed to protect the identity of the student.
Dedicated to Nana, the inspiration for this piece; Nicholas, whom without I would not be here; Clark, Alex and Coleman for always making me laugh; Matt and Hunter for believing in me; Nolan for all the hugs; Katharine for her moral support; and my parents for never giving up on me. I love you all.
