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Sometime in my late twenties I started asking close friends if everyone thought about killing themselves all the time.
“I mean, is this like a human condition sort of thing?” I’d ask over a beer or a coffee (a jocund raconteur, I am). “Like, does everyone walk around with a not-quite-voice in their head going youreafreaknobodylovesyougohomeandhangyourself pretty much every day, and is everyone else just way better at dealing with this voice-ish thing than I am?”
The person sitting over the other beer or coffee would usually then crinkle their forehead in alarmed concern.
“I don’t think I’m actually going to do it,” I’d reassure. “I’ve thought about it every day for like ever and I’ve never actually done it. I mean, I did try that once when I was nineteen, but that was a stupid white- girl-cry-for-help type of attempt and shouldn’t even really count.”
The person sitting across from me would ask if they needed to call anyone.
“No, I’m fine,” I’d say. “I’m just asking if you ever feel this way, too. Like, I used to think I was a huge pervert until I figured out that everyone thinks of weird sex all the time just like I do. I mean, not everyone. I know some people don’t and I also completely validate asexuality as an identity. But you know what I mean. It’s pretty normal to be obsessed with some pretty kinky sex stuff. I wonder if maybe suicide is similar? Something that everyone thinks about but nobody talks about.”
The person across from me would usually take another sip of their drink and say they thought about it sometimes, and everyone probably did sometimes, but thinking about it every day was probably not normal, and maybe I should go to a therapist and get on antidepressants.
“I know I should,” I’d say. But I didn’t. Not for years.
It was a point of pride that I wasn’t on antidepressants or in therapy. A psychiatrist in college had told me I would probably never be able to function without medication. He also told me I drank too much, and, in my opinion, asked me a few too many questions about my sex life for a fifty-something dude. He was obviously the Patriarchy and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to listen to a word he said. In fact, I was going drink more and go off my medication just to prove he was a Freudian fossil and I knew myself better than reductive, androcentric Western psychology ever could.
And you know what? I functioned. I got myself out of bed every morning. I held jobs. I went out. I made friends who were talented and intelligent and kind. I didn’t get too close to anyone. I knew none of them really cared about me. I worked and worked. I wrote books and films. I imagined jumping into rivers and out of windows. I started nonprofits. I taught poetry to at-risk youth. I drank a lot. I toured the world with my art. I hated and isolated myself. I got myself out of bed every morning. I walked around and talked to people. I knew I was a parasite and a monster and it would be better for everyone if I were dead. I knew this thought was probably not objectively true. I kept moving. I got myself out of bed every morning. I got older.
It was enough to keep doing things, I told myself. I remembered a character from Infinite Jest who had untreatable screaming depression but was still married and had a job and went about a “normal” life on the outside despite his frothing neurons. Depression is the modern human condition, after all. How could you live in the world with any awareness and not become overwhelmed with sadness about death and violence?
There was something stoically yogic about continuing to do what I hoped was “good work” while my brain and emotions hurled me around like a sadistic eight-year-old terrorizing a gerbil. I realized I was some new spiritual hybrid of martyr and bodhisattva. I was definitely probably enlightened–to be so sensitive and aware and yet to continue to walk through rain to the subway and make eye-contact with baristas and pay rent more-or-less on time. I was so virtuous you could puke.
I was a bachelor-monk. I was thirty, I slept on a twin-sized mattress on the floor under a Ganesh wall-hanging, and I was afraid I might be too unstable to ever be in a romantic relationship again.
But sometimes a pretty girl with blue hair appears out of nowhere and well, what can you do. When I told her I thought about killing myself every day, she didn’t run away. This was encouraging. Weeks passed, then months. She kept not running away.
Eventually, though, she told me it did upset her when I talked about my chronic impulse to off myself.
“But it has nothing to do with you!” I said. “I’m not asking you to fix it. No one can fix it. It’s all me.”
“It still affects me,” she said. “I love you.”
It felt like my heart fell straight through my chest and smacked on the floor between my feet. At the same time, I felt the teensiest bit less closed off.
Whatever depression is, it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. That no one could possibly understand you. That you’re outside of the “normal” human society that works meaningfully and follows Game of Thrones and eats brunch and loves and is loved.
Love did not “save” me. I did not go back on antidepressants for my girlfriend. But the experience of being in love has helped me understand that I have a responsibility as part of the world to be part of the world. I affect things, whether I want to or not. People care about me, whether I think they do or not.
My brain is not always right. No one’s is.
There are no magical, breezy “normal” people who are one-hundred percent stable all the time. We all have to navigate our inconsiderate emotions and brain chemistries to try to function in the world. Sometimes this navigation requires extra energy, or help from friends, families (chosen or biological), and doctors. Sometimes it requires meditation, sometimes medication. Sometimes it really is all you can do to just keep living until something opens up. I’m taking antidepressants because they help me.
I’m using the tools I have to become the most effective human being I can be. I’ll keep doing this every day I’m alive.
Tags: depression, drink less some drugs, drink more no drugs, having a twin bed is perfectly normal for a human adult, health, jade sylvan, mental health, some combination of drinking and drugs
Jade, this is hard and gorgeous, thanks thanks thanks. I hope you’re feeling better these days.
Well that sounds horrifically familiar. I never asked people if they had it because it was always obvious when they had it, like seeing a daemon in Phillip Pullman: right there on your shoulder. I assumed – and still do – the voice is normal for some people and you do just get to pay rent and keep going, until you choose to stop.
I never thought of wanting to die as being _really_ a depression. Just another pushy friend, someone to put off, week to week to week to years to one day when I say okay, and we’re done.
I know it is a depression, mind you, so I also have a therapist, and I never talk to her about it, because it gets boring, to talk about the voice every week. An ache one has to live with, maybe, like a torn ACL, like plantar fasciitis, like that place where you broke a bone when it rains.
I have these thoughts and plantar fasciitis, so it seems I’ve won the lottery of annoying-shit-that-does-not-go-away.
(But seriously, what an apt comparison! I agree with ginkgotree that it’s worth exploring options for healing, but I’ve been unsuccessful so far and I’m not too broken up about it.)
I once wrote a fanfic set in the Philip Pullman world about a girl whose daemon hates her and is always telling her she’s worthless and terrible and a waste of space and deserves to die.
That was shortly before I decided it was time to get help.
I don’t think it ever completely goes away, but you can make it much, much, smaller and make the other voices much, much louder. It took me thirteen years to get here (depression started when I was 12), but it’s definitely possible. Best of luck.
Stay safe and alive, Jade. Thanks for this. Really hits home – my four-year-old son’s best friend’s father jumped in front of a train this past weekend. He had been depressed all of his life but was raised to feel that seeking help was a sign of weakness. Now he leaves behind his wife and two little boys who will forever have holes in their hearts.
My husband had daily thoughts of suicide for years, much like the ones you described. He honestly thought it was normal, as you did, and so never sought out help. He casually mentioned his thoughts to me after we had been married for eight years and I was pregnant with our second child. It was like seeing him for the first time. I somehow persuaded him to see someone, and now he’s on medication and says the thoughts have gone away. Especially after what happened this week, I’m so glad he spoke up that day and was willing to get help.
My brain is not always right. No one’s is.
That is such a hard lesson to learn, and such an important one.
Thank you, Jade.
Depression is such a needy, selfish jerk to a person’s brain, and you captured that. I was convinced that being on medication meant I was a dependent failure, but then one day I noticed that I was really enjoying the drive through the mountains, and how good the fresh air smelled, and then I remembered what life could be like when I wasn’t hard and numb and barely surviving. And it was worth it.
Thank you for writing this, and I am very glad you’re alive.
So… it’s not normal to have that voice? Shit.
I was coming down to type the same comment.
I mean, people tell me it’s not normal? but how is that possible because it’s normal for me, for as long as I can remember?
It’s so normal for me that I can still function pretty well, like Jade describes. And the SNRI I take keeps the depression from becoming acute. But I still have trouble rounding up the gumption to do things that would make my situation even better, and help even more. Like applying to get a better job so that I can move out of my parents’ house, which is awesome – no rent! – but is kind of depressing suburbia and doesn’t give me my own space to spread out my art or craft stuff, which is important to keeping my brain in good shape.
I am waving my hand in a futile gesture of empathy. I still, well medicated for decades, think about suicide regularly. I’ll never try again–yes, partially for the people who help me be in the world, for whom I want to be in the world–but she’s there, always, the part of my brain that wants to kill me. I can mute her, but I can’t remove her.
This was far too real (in a great way), especially the part where you use the outside signs of functionality as a reason not to go on medication or be in a regular therapy-type situation.
I also love any ongoing mental illness talk because it’s easy sometimes to feel stuck in the blackout curtains of stigma surrounding that issue, even though it’s been so much better! Last year I found a fantastic therapist who regularly texts me pictures of her dog, and with her help I was brave enough to try to go on half the lowest dosage of a common antidepressant, just to try it out and see if it could quiet the constant roaring in my head.
It didn’t and I missed a bunch of work because I was too busy hiding and crying in bed (turns out I am one of the people who medication is Absolutely Not For), but I’m still glad I tried. Where I stand right now is as someone who’s mildly bipolar and absolutely unmedicated, which means that I’m REALLY fun at parties.
All of this is to say, thanks for writing about this. Let’s all talk about our weird brains.
(turns out I am one of the people who medication is Absolutely Not For)
I’m the same way with common SSRI medication – either it makes things Even Worse or I have awful allergic reactions or it does absolutely zilch. It was very frustrating to cycle through them when I was already desperate for something to help, because I was in a particularly low zone. (It turns out that I respond well to SNRIs, but eventually grow too tolerant to them, so I have to switch to a new formula, and that is tough, and of course not everyone is lucky enough to find a medication they respond well to.)
Good luck!
I came very close to losing my job last year because of medication side effects and allergic reactions. It’s the last time I’m going to try. The doctor’s failure to believe me when I said that I was having a bad reaction, and response of “well, that’s the mildest, so if that doesn’t work, nothing will” was not helpful. After the ER visit to keep my throat from swelling shut and treat spiking blood pressure, I dropped the doc. No suicidal ideation, but constant anxiety and depression. Sometimes the best you can do is just carrying on.
“well, that’s the mildest, so if that doesn’t work, nothing will”
That’s a bunch of bull. There are so many new drugs out there today, and a doctor who prescribes one and then gives up doesn’t know what s/he’s talking about. It took me two years of hell and a visit to a psychopharmacologist to find a drug that worked for me, but I did and life’s pretty good. It was worth it. Carrying on is fine, but trust me. There’s better.
It was 4 or 5 diff meds (I’d already tried everything else, last go-round). I’ve been playing this game for almost 30 years, and at this point, no meds IS better than bad (for me) meds.
But yes, I also did recognize it as an unacceptable/lame/possible malpractice answer. There was just too much other medical stuff going on in my life to tackle yet another fuckwad doctor/situation.
I completely agree. When I was on the minimum dose of antidepressant X, I had one of the worst side effects of all – suicidal intentions. I knew it was chemical because as soon as I stopped the drug, it immediately disappeared and didn’t come back, and even somewhere in the back of my head it felt almost like a fake chemical urge (if you can understand that – like being compelled, if you’ve felt that before). It took a psychiatrist and several years later (plus another admission or two into hospital) to put me back onto the same drug, but at its maximum dose, which was something like 4 or 5 times the dose I had been originally been taking the first time a few years earlier. That did the trick. No side effects and it worked perfectly for me. I’ve now been on that dose for something like 4 years and my mood has balanced ever since. Sure I get down sometimes but it’s because of bad circumstances, not because of my head, and I don’t dip into those agonising lows.
Just advising that if you try a drug and it doesn’t work, DON’T give up straight away because it might do wonders for you on a different dose or combined with a different drug – a friend of mine has always had to combine her antidepressants to find the right effects. If you are serious about getting better, do it under the care of a psychiatrist. They may be more expensive but they are called specialists for a reason – because they are experts in this field whilst GPs only have general knowledge.
“Love did not “save” me.”
This is maybe the hardest thing for people to understand when they are on the outskirts of a loved one’s depression.
“And you know what? I functioned.”
I could have written that entire paragraph, before I finally got myself help. I want to say something more profound but all I’ve got is “me too.”
Yes. The stubborn pride of Managing Fine On My Own. The crushing defeat of finally succumbing to the little white chains. The slow shifting of the tide until quietly, unexpectedly – oh. I’m alive. And would you look at how beautiful it is?
It might not ever be normal. But using all the tools we have to be able to see the beauty once in a while is no weakness, no defeat at all.
Thank you for these conversations – it is easy to feel alone, and wonderful to place ourselves instead within the comforting realm of shared human experience. And I second hugpunch – thanks for sticking around to share them with us. I wish you joy in your love and beyond.
I relate to all of this so so much. God, I kick myself thinking about how long I waited to do anything about it, because was told and therefore told myself that I just needed to buck up and get over it, and that therapy and meds are for people with “real problems.” Such bullshit.
I am reading a book called the Chemistry of Joy, and it explains how dopamine and serotonin work in such a straightforward way that now I’m just furious no one had told me before. I learned that I most likely have a “small and easily emptied tank” of dopamine, and that that’s not my fault, and that I should be careful to keep my tank full. When my tank gets empty, my brain goes haywire. Any combination of things can empty the tank. Any stressors at all. Hallelujah, it’s not for lack of love, it’s not for lack of willpower, it’s not a shitty personality! It’s my “small and easily emptied tank!” It may sound silly, but I convinced myself to go on a bike ride last night by picturing my brain pumping out new dopamine, and picturing my antidepressant allowing that dopamine to float around in my brain and make me feel better. That’s kind of phenomenal, for me.
We get so little education about what depression actually IS. There are so many incorrect assumptions attached to the word “depression” that I wish there could just be a new name for it, something that makes it sound more like a real disorder/deficiency/disease.
As someone who has dealt with depression, I want to thank you for writing this.
One thing that I really like about reading pieces about depression is how different the experience can be. When I was depressed, I only knew my own depression. Actually, for a long time, I didn’t even know it was depression – that’s just what I thought life was like for everyone. And similar to Jade, I thought I was somehow special or more aware, hence my inability to cope with life’s horrors. In my early twenties, I had a major depressive episode, and after going to a therapist I learned that I had also had minor depression my entire life.
It was only after taking medication and being not depressed that I was able to identify what my depression was actually like. How hopeless and bleak everything seemed. How all the good things were less good, how all the bad things were worse, how my level of happiness, if left unprovoked, would regress like a piece of foam to a place of negativity instead of positivity.
And that’s why I think it’s so important and so interesting to read different accounts of depression. When I was depressed, I thought everyone was like me. When I wasn’t depressed, I thought that my depression was what depression was like for all depressed people. And now, when others find a way to really write about their experiences with depression, I get the opportunity to learn more about the variety of forms and feelings that depression can take. I’m not sure why this is helpful and wonderful, but it is. It’s something that hurt my life for so long, and learning about it gives me more power to understand my past and help others I see in similar situations.
I think most people have read the Hyperbole and a Half story about the author’s depression, but I feel like this article should be required supplemental reading.
This is beautifully honest, I don’t think everyone immediately assumes that these kind of things are abnormal and it’s refreshing to have someone be so open about it. Thank you for writing it and I hope things are better for you now 🙂
Having a twin bed as an adult is perfectly normal but it is very melancholic
Not necessarily–I remember lying on my twin bed in my rented room in graduate school, thinking, “I am whole. I am complete by myself. Nobody else needs to be in this bed, because I am myself.” I felt exalted, like I was filled with light and had just discovered the secrets of the universe.
Hypomania is SO MUCH FUN, you guys. Pity about the other end of the pendulum.
Anyway, it was within the year that I fell in love, as if a switch flipped. I sleep in a queen bed now with that guy, my partner and spouse and companion, who knows he can’t fix me but gives me a big incentive to stick with the world.
Thank you for this. It provided useful insight; I’m not special, I am suffering from depression. I am one of those people for whom SSRIs don’t work properly but I believe we should make use of all the tools we have at our disposal to get better. Toughing it out
just leads to unnecessary misery for ourselves and our loved ones.
Thank you for making me laugh hysterically (from a place of relating deeply)!
“A psychiatrist in college had told me I would probably never be able to function without medication. He also told me I drank too much, and, in my opinion, asked me a few too many questions about my sex life for a fifty-something dude. He was obviously the Patriarchy and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to listen to a word he said. ”
And here we have summed up every single one of my attempts to find a therapist. (Apparently there are zero women who accept my insurance and are taking new patients)
Depression jerkbrain: reproaching myself for not being a fraction as productive as the author through my own basically constant wish to be dead.
YEP.
Oh, god this hurt.
(It might be time to try new meds.)
Incredible. So beautifully put.