The Truth About Depression
Okay, I know I’m not going to make sense in this blog post. Well, maybe I’ll make sense to some people. So—you people? I’m talking to you. Anyone else who doesn’t get it is entitled to their opinion.
For the last 6 months or so, I’ve been slowly sliding into depression. And yes, I could blame it on external things that have happened, but honestly, nothing in particular that’s gone on in my world really caused it. As far as I can tell, the reason is because I changed from my old antidepressant to a different (weaker) one back in the early fall. The timing makes sense. I had my first crying jag in December, though a friend mentioned she’s noticed me slipping since November.
I would have thought I’d notice my moods getting progressively more chaotic, but I guess it happened gradually enough that I didn’t pick up on it. Besides, I don’t get depressed the way one would expect. I don’t sleep too much or stop eating or lie in bed all day. I get agitated and irritable and instead of sadness being a heavy blanket that weighs me down I get hyperactive and in my very bad moments self destructive. Oh, and I cry more. Lots and lots of crying.
Why am I telling you this, dear friends and readers? Well, because I’ve noticed a trend—and it’s as old as time, I guess, but it’s annoying the shit out of me right now—that within artistic communities and the people who support them, it’s considered cool to be depressed.
Having dark thoughts and sad feelings and dramatic mood swings creates a certain currency in the writing biz. As if your personality determines the emotional intensity in your work. So, the reasoning goes, if I’m bursting into tears every few days that means my writing should be awesome—because I’m really, really in touch with my emotions.
But I’m hear to tell you, it doesn’t work like that. Maybe for some people it does, but sure as hell not me. I can’t write for shit when I’m depressed. Words get on paper, but they’re not very good, and just because I feel like hell while writing doesn’t mean I sum up the human experience better than I would when I’m on an even keel.
Likewise, being depressed does not make me a better person. I don’t care more about my fellow man or the world’s problems. If anything, I care less about everyone else because I’m too busy staring at my own belly button.
The truth is that mental illness is about as far from cool as you can get. It screws with your relationships, messes up your work life, and is about as much fun as a case of food poisoning.
I shouldn’t be avoiding the news because I don’t think I can handle watching it without getting upset. I shouldn’t be avoiding reading because something in a story could set me off. And I certainly shouldn’t be crushed to the point of misery over things like a bad review, a drama on Facebook or a manuscript rejection.
It’s not normal to feel traumatized by everyday, expected aspects of my writing career. Yeah, this is a hard business. And it’s especially hard on the ego. But seriously, if you write, some people are going to like your work and others won’t. Some people are going to agree with your perspective and others won’t. Some people are going to care about YOU, and the rest of them WON’T.
That’s writing. Hell, that’s life. Bad things happen, and good things happen. But a healthy person can weather both the good and the bad without losing their shit.
So as of now—yesterday, actually—I’m not having any more of this crap. I’m getting back on my old meds, taking a break from writing for as long as I need to, and getting my emotional act together. Because the truth about depression is it sucks but it’s treatable. And suffering with it if you don’t have to is very, very uncool.
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