There was this TV commercial that would show a woman in pain sitting on the couch with her sympathetic dog beside her with no visible wound or ailment, a man at work not able to concentrate and discontent, a woman with her family in her background not being able to enjoy her time with them, and then it would say, “Depression hurts.”
That part always resonated with me. Depression certainly does hurt The pain can be excruciating. Whether you’re the one that is directly suffering from the illness, or a loved one that you watch struggle through it everyday.
I’ve certainly battled through my own bouts of depression. Low on cash, other non-related health concerns, work stress, family stress – we all, at one time or another, feel anxious or depressed, even in the mildest forms – that’s life.
However, there are people, an ever increasing number that suffer from far more complicated and debilitating forms of depression. Manic depression (bipolar disorder), schizophrenia, post-partum… the list goes on and on.
People that have never suffered through it or have intimately known someone that has, for the most part, have a difficult time understanding and sympathizing. I’ve heard ignorant comments that people say implying that depressed people ” just want attention”, “they were brought up with poor parenting and now they’re acting out”, I’ve even heard others say that it’s a demonic influence – it’s all disgusting. But I don’t see it as indifference as much as I see it as an unlettered perspective of someone that has the inability to sympathize as they have no life experience on the subject at hand.
I was one of those people at one time. Not to the extent of thinking they were possessed, but even still. I was not properly informed and formed my own opinions.
My youngest brother began acting out when he was 10 years old. Violent outbursts, he began drinking and using drugs, soaring highs and devouring lows. My parents and I chalked it up to, “He’s going through a phase.” “He’s going to be a teenager soon.” “Hormones.”
As he got older, his violent outbursts began getting worse. Damaging. Holes in the walls. After he’d come back down, remorse, sympathy. He’d frequently patch up his own holes in the walls after he’d just caused them a few short hours prior. He felt no one loved him. That no one cared for him. Even though we would tell him frequently, constantly, that we did. He was such a happy child. Where did he go? What happened to him?
As I got older, and started reading more, I came across and started hearing more and more about bipolar disorder (manic depression). The symptoms matched my brother’s to exactitude. The onset can come on at any moment. Usually as a teenager or young adult. Sometimes even later in life.
I started pushing my mother to get him help. She did. He went on medication. He didn’t stay on it. As many people with depression do, they begin to feel better, or they don’t like the way the medication makes them feel, and they want off. My brother would say that on the medication he felt nothing. Numbness. Never excited about anything good, or feeling sad for anything that would usually promote a feeling of compassion. He would rather feel highs and lows than not feel anything at all. We tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn’t listen and forcing him was easier said than done.
He went ricocheting back into depression. More severely so. By the age of 18 years old, after battling with his manic depression for 8 long years, he finally decided it was too much for him and decided to take his life. My parents found him hanging in his closet. It’s the hardest thing, the most intense pain, that I’ve ever experienced. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him, long for him, mentally cry for him. It’s overwhelming at times. I try not to think too much or too deeply as to what my parents saw or how they must feel as parents, the loss of their baby. Otherwise, I know it would be too much for me. So I avoid those thoughts that frequently try to creep inside my mind. I push them away.
If you or a loved one suffer from any type of depression, get them, or yourself, help immediately. Stay on your medication. It may take trying several different combinations until you get on the right type or amount for you, but don’t give up.
I know, in my heart, that if my brother knew how much pain we are all in to this day, he never would have done it. He just truly believed we would be better off without him. He was wrong, but he didn’t know that. His mind wouldn’t let him reason. A part of me thinks that it’s selfish of me to want that, for him to live in constant agony, but it’s too late to think of all the “what ifs.” “What if I would have hidden his medication into his food?” “What if I would have paid him to take it?” “What if…?
I know I’m not alone in this and that regrettably, so many people around the world experience this every day. You are not alone. Get help. Someone does love you.
