I’m Not Depressed, And That’s OK

Depression is not a choice.

It was the second time it happened. The first time I was at the doctor’s office when I got the call. I knew right away something wasn’t right. My friend was on the other end of the call but if I didn’t see his name on the phone, I wouldn’t have recognized it was him.

Nothing he was saying made sense. He wasn’t mumbling, it’s just that the words he was trying to put together, don’t go together. I got scared. I stepped outside and asked him over and over again where he was and what was the matter.

After five minutes of incoherent conversation, he ended the call.

It took me hours to get in touch with one of our mutual friends, and learned that he had already checked himself into a mental health facility. My heart sunk. My stomach knotted. For the next month, I replayed every single one of our interactions over the past year trying to figure out how I could be so blind to what were obvious signs.

Less than a year later, it happened again.

A different friend this time. I was at home writing when I got this call. He was crying. He said he couldn’t take it anymore; that it was all too much. He lost his job, lost his apartment, lost many of his so-called friends, and it was all too much.

I screamed at him. Told him he had plenty to live for. Told him the friends who really loved him were all still here, still supporting him. I’m not sure if he listened but he’s still here with us today, even though he’s still struggling to get well.

I wanted to be depressed after that. I’m not sure how that sounds, but it’s how I felt. I blamed myself for not seeing what upon reflection was so obvious. That two of my closest friends, one of whom I’d known since childhood, were desperately calling out for help and both deeply struggling with their addiction and mental health.

I hated myself for a while after that. I felt weak, stupid, naive, cowardly; all of the above. I thought to myself, how can someone so intelligent not recognize what was happening? How can someone who claims to be so in touch with culture and in tune with their friends not recognize mental illness?

I wanted to be depressed, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t because being depressed isn’t as simple as making a choice. People who are depressed aren’t choosing to be that way. It’s something they battle with, try to hide, run away from, avoid, do anything so they don’t have to deal with those lack of feelings.

So when I say it’s OK that I’m not depressed, I say that with that with a sense of respect and empathy for those who are. Those who are fighting any variation of mental illness are enduring a battle I could never even imagine.

And I’m living on the other side of it. I’m the one who is there to answer those calls. I’m here to be that ear, that shoulder, that friend who is dependable enough to do nothing more than be there without judgement.

Since then, I’ve sat across from many people I know as they express to me some of the unimaginable things they’ve gone through. I know enough that I can’t change much, but I can be present, and by being present, they know that I care, and that means a lot.

I must admit that in many instances, I still feel powerless. I wish I could do more, still think that I should’ve done more, but am starting to accept that I just can’t…

CRY

I’m Not Depressed, And That’s OK was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.