Writing Through Depression
A snapshot of an ongoing struggle
Today was a shitty day. Nothing bad happened, really, but every motion I made felt weighed down by some kind of heavier gravity. My mind felt like a swamp, my thoughts lost in yellow, low-lying fog. Every task seemed tedious. And for much of the day, I couldn’t shake the sense that, despite having a day job I generally enjoy, a fiancé I very much love, and a solar system of friends and family who undoubtedly love me, my existence on this earth lacked some kind of essential purpose. I felt illogically, terribly alone.
All of which is to say that today — all day — I felt unendingly and heavily depressed.
I’m familiar with days like this. I’ve come to recognize my personal brand of depression as a dark, continuous concert of feeling. I’ve struggled with it for pretty much the entirety of my cognizant life — certainly for as long as I’ve been aware of the fact that the composition of sub-feelings that comprise it had an official, English language appellation.
(One benefit of being slightly mentally unstable is that if you find stability in working out, you end up in pretty good shape.)
For a long time, the mere reality that depression was something I had to struggle with itself proved a source of distress. I’ve come to understand, however, that like a river that runs through the heart of a city, the hum of depression that’s always sort of lowly present in my head is simply a component of my self. Today that river crawled over its banks, overpowered my levees of resistance. And that is why my “struggle” with depression— as I’ve come to understand it — is not defined by ongoing attempts to rid myself of it, but rather to keep the thing from turning my brain into a swamp.
In this effort, I employ a number of different tactics, construct a variety of different levees. When I sense the dark water rising, I talk with my fiancé. I articulate what seems to be the source of the anxiety and panic. I work out. (One benefit of being slightly mentally unstable is that if you find stability in working out, you end up in pretty good shape.) And I do other, slightly more typical things: I read, attempt to meditate, go on long walks, etc.
Depression is not something I ever hope to cure or rid myself of.
All these things help. No doubt. But of all the levees I’ve built, I’ve found that nothing I do or try works more holistically or dependently in containing the darkness of the river of my mind than finding a quiet pocket of solitude, opening up a notebook, and depositing my anxiety onto a clean white page.
In this way, for me, writing has become an act of self-preservation as much as a modicum of expression or artistry. And, the thing is: It works! As the page becomes a mottled mess of scrawl and scratch, my head becomes clear, and the roaring of a river enraged dials back to the dull, background hum that I’ve gotten used to — even come to recognize as the sound of me, happening.
Accordingly, depression is not something I ever hope to rid myself of. It’s not something I hope to cure. Rather, it’s something I’ve resolved to co-exist with — to utilize when able, fear when appropriate, and work continuously to contain. For whatever reason, reminding myself of this brings me something like peace.
I know this about myself — that writing restores something vital inside my head. It’s why when I got on the bus after work on this shitty, shitty day, the first thing I did was take out my notebook and start writing this.
I’m not sure what “this” is, exactly. It’s not an essay or an article or a story. I’ll call it a snapshot — a snapshot of the struggle in process. I think.
Either way, the bus is pulling up to my stop. And I think I feel better. At least for now.
The process continues. The river is relentless.
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