Depression, for me, is genetic. The fact that I cannot point to a specific event that triggered my symptoms makes the disease seem more nebulous. I’m more susceptible to believing that well-meaning person that says “You’re young! You have a beautiful family! How could you be depressed?” Maybe, I think, I’m not sick. Maybe it’s my attitude.
It’s not. I am sick. Don’t let your depression be nebulous. How can you battle an enemy that has no shape or form? I tell my mom, who has suffered and fought for 40 years (yet still asks her psychiatrist from time to time: “Am I really sick?”) that neither of us should be ashamed to say that we suffer from clinical depression, or mixed mood disorder or major depressive disorder, whatever you want to call it. If depression is the reason that I struggle to get out of bed, or leave the house - anything - why should I be afraid to say that?
Breast cancer awareness has pink ribbons. Families of soldiers fly yellow ribbons. Autism uses blue. But did you know, we have a colored ribbon all our own? It’s silver. Just because people can’t see inside yourself and see the way you struggle to cope with basic tasks from time to time doesn’t mean it isn’t real. I don’t have a cast, or a port for chemotherapy, or a pacemaker, but I still am fighting a disease. I label that depression. I put a face on it. I do what I can to make it into something that I can fight. For now, I’m not going to win. I know there isn’t a cure. I’m still going to have bad feelings, terrible pains, like I’m free-falling out of control, or circling the drain.
But, if in the midst of those feelings, I can stop and say, “I am sick, and this is real”, then I can see my opponent. I can visualize him. And I can fight.