Some Words for the Desperate

I have been reading Beyond Blue for awhile. You may give hope to people with minimum to mild depression. But apparently you have no idea what it’s like to suffer from severe depression. If you really think that people with depression put their feelings out for all to see, you are grossly mistaken. They try to hide. And I can’t understand how anything about depression can be put to good use.

First of all, a little background information for those who didn’t read the post. I think Kathy is referring to these statements (about how depression is like a pumpkin):

2. With enough creativity, you can it put it to good use.

12. It can make you think of Thanksgiving, and everything you have to be grateful for.

15. A lot of people have one, but most don't put theirs out on the porch (like I do) for everybody to see (and comment on).

16. After you dig out its guts and give it a light, it can be made into something beautiful (at least temporarily).

It’s true, Kathy, that for the last two months or so I’ve been writing from a pretty good place, and so my tone is probably playful and sarcastic—how I sound when I’m glad I’m alive.

It’s good for me to read a comment like yours so that I keep in mind that plenty of Beyond Blue readers are not at that same place, and they can’t find a whole lot of humor in their illness. My recent posts haven't articulated how scary and debilitating and draining depression can be.

I don't claim to have been exactly where you are. No two paths are the same. But I write Beyond Blue for this reason: it's a miracle that I am alive given the severity of my suicidal thoughts, and the length of time they stayed with me (well over a year). For example, you might want to read my past post, "Confessions of a Suicidal Yogi," in which I write things like this:

One hour at a time. You can do it. Just make it to the end of class.

Then what? Do the math. I'm only 35. I could live up to 60 more years. I might be less than halfway through my life. A truly frightening thought. If I had a terminal illness--cancer or some tumor--I could probably hold on a few more years. But what if God isn't merciful and makes me endure another five or sex decades? Can't do it.

Stop it. Jesus, be with me. Think positively. Life is a gift.

That's a lie. Why should I say that when I don't mean it? Why did God create me if all I want to do is die? Everyone feels this way. It's just un-American to admit it. This nation is too programmed by Disney and McDonalds to be real. No one questions the attitude-of-gratitude that is force-fed to us all the time.

Where does everyone find the strength to go on? Why doesn't everyone commit suicide? Are people just better at faking happiness than I am? I am a crappy liar. That's my problem. Make-believe worlds have never appealed to me. On this side of death anyway. Peace isn't here. It's there. I've got to get there. Now.

And know that there are many more Beyond Blue readers that stand with you clinging onto life by their fingernails. Like Beyond Blue reader Shawna who wrote a cry for help on the message board of my post "40 Ways Aren’t Always Enough":

Now a days, I’ve lost my laughter, lost my drive, and just try to gather enough strength to get me and my two teenage boys to the next day. . . . I finally gave up asking God for a direction. I don’t think I will get through this one. I’m losing hope.

Back in February, a reader named Kate wrote the following on the message board of my post "Should He Tell?":

No one knows how I feel. I wake up every day wishing that something horrible would happen to me. The life I Knew and loved is gone forever.

This is what I wrote to her, and I stand by it for you, as well:

You say that no one could understand your despair. I have no doubt you feel completely alone in your battle. But I'm pretty sure a few readers have known similar pain.

I, for one, recognized your plea to God: "Why did you create me if all I want to do is die?" I asked that same question (with a few fillers) for at least a year. I pounded my fists on my bedroom floor with such rage that I nearly fractured my bones, and I threw books like "What Happy People Know" and "Authentic Happiness" over the banister in a temper-tantrum of sorts.

That was a good sign. It meant I hadn't given up. Like you. I was still in the game. Ticked off, but still playing.

I think I'm spending too much time with my New-Age in-laws (whom I most certainly love), because I want to tell you to tap the life force within you. It's there. And call on your Creator. Cuss him out. Yell at him. Say whatever you want. But don't stop talking. Because as long as you are saying something, you're communicating, and that means you are in a relationship with him. He can't give up on you.

You know those 12 steps I wrote about? Scrap them. Just do this: hang in there. Because this really will pass. Even if you never find the right cocktail or the right doctor or the right support group. It will get better. And you will be there to reach out to some young Kate along the way, maybe a relative or maybe a stranger, and you'll convince her to stay, too, because you're starting to have a little fun.

God bless you.

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