The World Health Organization states that 300 million people have had at least one depressive episode in a given year. I am one of those statistics.
I was 25 when I had my first experience with clinical depression, although I’d probably also been depressed for the years that I masked with alcohol. But in 1996 depression stopped me dead in my tracks. At first, I didn’t know what was happening. I was working as a newspaper reporter in Pittsburgh and lived in a very hip section of town above an architect’s studio with lots of windows and a purple door. I loved the apartment but driving home every day I was lethargic. I’d pass a park with people biking, walking, picnicking, merely living life and I felt so empty. I couldn’t remember the last time something had excited me. I’d reach my apartment and run inside, only feeling safe once I’d crawled into bed. But I didn’t sleep. I’d watch the clock all night long until it was time to go to work again.
I couldn’t concentrate and started “zoning” out on interviews. Anything the person mentioned, I would make it about myself that I’ll never have that or I’ll never be able to achieve that. I finally confided in my mother that something was wrong and she took me to a doctor. He prescribed antidepressants and two months off work. I lost the fabulous apartment and any sense of independence I had left.
I stayed in bed for days at a time, ruminating in my head about what an awful person I was. I didn’t want to talk to friends. I didn’t want to talk to my boyfriend. I started fantasizing about killing myself. Every night I laid in bed trying to muster up the courage to act. The scariest part is I never knew if I’d go through with it or not.
But somewhere in the dark, in the depths of my despair, I found an inkling of hope or maybe it found me. When my aunt stopped over during her lunch break to take me for a walk, I started to go. And I felt better afterwards. My best friend, Jenn, tried to teach me to play soccer —anything to get my mind off myself. It started to work. I went to visit my boyfriend in New York City and I was awkward and uncomfortable but I did it. All of these little feats were starting to add up.
Eventually, I went back to work but I was terrified about what people would think. They gave me flowers and hugs and someone even confided that she took Prozac too. I decided to write about my experience in the newspaper and it ran with my picture. I got letters of support from readers and colleagues. A few years later, I wrote about it again in Marie Claire Magazine, and a few years after that, I told an entirely different story in the Washington Post Magazine. Each time I wrote, I got stronger.
I told myself that I shared my story because of the stigma and secrecy that surrounds depression and bipolar disorder. I learned that with medication and counseling you can live successfully and even thrive despite mental illness.
And then I didn’t feel so strong anymore. Those stories I wrote were archived on Google for prospective employers, prospective boyfriends, for anyone to read. I researched how to remove them. I prayed really hard that when I was unemployed, the job I wanted, wouldn’t see them or that the man I just started dating didn’t Google me. All of a sudden, I wanted my depression to be a secret again.
My last episode was in 2005. Since then, I’ve experienced a lot of joys and sorrows. I got married and went through a painful divorce. I had a failed business venture. I’ve been unemployed. I lost and found myself and my mental health stayed intact through it all. I know it can happen again. But today I am willing to do whatever I have to do to never go back to where I was. That means appointments with my psychiatrist, medication, and trying to keep my stress levels low. And it’s working. I refuse to be defined by my mental illness and I’m no longer scared about what people might think. I am so much more today. I am a writer, a daughter, a sister, and a friend. Today I can honestly say I am thankful for the experiences that led me here. I think it’s simply life and I am grateful.
