Its name is Prudence. It inhabits me. Is me. Convinces me we are one and the same. Prudence tells me that I am hopeless. Useless. She is my black dog.
This is my depression.
It’s an imperfectly round ball, lodged in my left side. Cover my stomach with sticky cold gel and you’ll see it there on ultrasound. It aches. Pulses. A dull, localised pain. I want it surgically removed.
This is my depression.
It’s the Lana Del Ray album I listened to on repeat while in the hospital. Its eerie, lonely, melancholy. My inpatient soundtrack. It sings my sadness.
This is my depression.
It is fat, hot tears. Short sharp outbursts. Long cathartic sobs. And silence. The quietest of silences.
This is my depression.
It’s a pair of glasses splattered with dirt so I can’t see anything clearly. The world is distorted and so are the interpretations I make of it. I’m bereft. I’ve lost my compass.
This is my depression.
It’s a skin so thin that everything seeps through. I’m porous. Bloated with sad. Life is an assault. Everything is too noisy, too bright, too fast. I can’t keep up. I’m left behind.
This is my depression.
It’s in my throat. The length of my neck. It throbs. It’s hard to…
This is my depression.
It’s a heavy black coat, too warm for the weather. I drag it around. The thick, inconvenient weight of it. It’s burdensome. Fits poorly. It doesn’t suit me. Black is not my colour. Each of my movements is labored. I misjudge the speed of oncoming traffic. I’m too slow as I walk through the barrier at the train station. It slams in front of me before I can pass. A thump of metal. And I’m locked out.
This is my depression.
It’s the stranger in the mirror. My sick, fragile sister. Her dark, empty eyes. There are bones in her shoulders that I don’t recognise. Did I eat today? Yesterday? I’ve lost my hunger. I don’t know where I left it.
This is my depression.
It’s a muddied brain. Thoughts that come too fast or too slow. Rumination cycles, I can’t leap off. It’s a broken memory. Forgotten plans. Misread words on a page. Books abandoned in piles. Concentration shot.
This is my depression.
It’s paralysing fatigue. Eye sockets that ache. Heavy, weak, limbs. A body that craves and cries out for sleep and the sanctuary of a doona cave. Yet wrestles with insomnia for the right to rest.
This is my depression.
It’s the strength I knew was there, but didn’t ever need. The steely, stubborn resolve. The small, green shoots of the new me, because I’m forever changed now. Where the sad used to hide, there’s wisdom.
Compassion. The deepest empathy. I’ve learnt another language. I’m fluent in despair. And the hope that follows. I’ll teach it to others, someday.
It’s the discovery that there’s such beauty in the breakdown. I’m seeing it now. I find it in words and music and in the shock of blue sky after days of rain. My skin is still porous but it lets the light through.
It’s the exquisite kindness of family and friends. The unwavering support of my husband who loves me fiercely. I inhale his strength and breathe out fresh courage. I’m a little better every day.
This is my recovery.
Our experiences of depression are similar. But different.
If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner or in Australia, contact Lifeline 13 11 14 for support or beyondblue 1300 22 4636.
Ariane is a 29 year old mum of one who is looking forward to her approaching 30th birthday, as odd numbers make her nervous. She holds Peppa Pig responsible for recently teaching her son the word “why?” and is not to be left unsupervised in secondhand book stores. You can find her on twitter @Ariane_JMS.
Top Comments
I have survived depression as well. Several times. It has been my life's battle. It has manifested from Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Panic Disorder and has manifested into Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
That was me. Being cradled in my Mum's arms asking her to let me kill myself. My Dad holding me so tight I have trouble breathing because I just want to let go. My younger sister watching me waste away, from not eating, not sleeping and pulling my own hair out, not knowing what to do or say to bring me back.
My Nan driving me to hospital and countless appointments.
Nurses and doctors coming into my house everyday to check my vitals and to ask me every single day do I have the bad thoughts.
Lying on the couch drugged and sobbing constantly, my eyes burning and my nose blocked from the constant crying.
Out of all of this pain and living in a deep, dark pit that I thought I would never climb out of, I have my family. My Mum nursed me, forced me to eat small amounts, forced me to drink and just sat with me stroking my hair, or what was left of it.
My sister smiled at me each day and gave me hope.
My Dad held me when I cried and told me no one was giving up on me.
I believed in them and gradually, with the right medication and the right psychiatrist I slowly climbed out of the dark pit.
It took a long time. I am extremely proud to have survived. My family were my support and reminded me each and every day that I was loved and I wasn't allowed to leave them because if I did it would break them. I wasn't going to do that to the people who I love and adore the most in this world.
I don't say 'I had depression' I say 'I survived depression'.
And so has everyone else who has pulled themselves from the darkest places. You survived and you should be bloody proud.
How did you recover? I'd love to know what helped.
This could have been written by me, with the exception of food. I don't ever stop eating when the depression has me. The taste of food is the only pleasure I feel. Almost the only thing that feels real. But it is fleeting, so I go back for more, and more, and more.