If you suffer from depression, it will pass
It may feel eternal and untreatable, but it is neither of those — and help is there for you
I’ve lapsed into a few deep depressions in my life.
The first great one — and I use the word great here purely as a measure of despair — was so otherworldly, so indescribable, so unlike anything I’d ever considered, it seemed, at the time, unimaginable to me that anyone else had ever felt this way.
I thought about my life with depression this week when I read the sad and tragic story of Florence Leung, the 32-year-old New Westminster mother who left her home, her husband and her baby Oct. 25 and was found dead weeks later in the waters off Bowen Island.
The new mom and registered nurse had been experiencing postpartum depression at the time of her disappearance.
It’s a grim place to be, you alone with the black-eyed dog.
I spent a lot of time there — alone with my depression. Managing the company of others when you are in a hole this black is as difficult as it is undesirable.
That first great depression, the one that changed my life, was diagnosed by a doctor at the time as a “psychotic depression.” I look back on that diagnosis and consider it a little over the top, but at the time it felt as accurate as it felt obvious.
In the early days of the illness, I would struggle with understanding the point of everything. I would poke my head into the existential rabbit hole and not come out for days.
When my illness had reached its nadir, questioning the point of everything had turned into questioning the point of anything.
I never got to the point where I considered how I would end my life — I only considered the likelihood that I would. Then I would cry. I would sob. Sometimes for hours and hours. Whatever the crying did, whatever chemicals it released into my troubled brain, it would always work. It became my most reliable defence against the sickness. It was the one thing that kept me from considering the now.
At the end of the crying, the depression would lift, at first for maybe an hour, but then, as the illness lingered, the lift from the crying would last longer.
Eventually, the tears would feel redundant. I knew then I had emerged from the crisis.
Acknowledging my relationship with mental illness is hardly a courageous thing. I am certain that in the grand spectrum of depression, mine may well be more ‘garden variety’ than, say, extraordinary in its severity and uniqueness. All I know for certain is, garden variety or not, the parts that were killing me were mine and mine alone.
I have been willing to talk about my mental health over the decades, so I’ve had the honour and responsibility of counselling others in managing their despair.
Most of the advice I offer is readily available through Google. In the matter of postpartum depression, the kind that took the life of Florence Leung, Postmedia News reporter Randy Shore published a most helpful guide Thursday under the header: Five things to know.
The salient advice I will repeat from Randy’s report is this PSA: “To find a reproductive mental health specialist, call B.C. Women’s Hospital toll-free at 1-800-300-3088 ext. 2015.”
There is also the Pacific Post Partum Support Society, which runs support groups and a helpline staffed by people who have themselves experienced depression or anxiety: 604-255-7999 or toll-free at 1-855-255-7999.
Now, if I may, I’d like to offer two bits of advice that may not be as readily available on Google.
The first is this: Always know you’ll get better. If you stick with the fight, get therapy, take your medication as prescribed, talk with others, force yourself to stay active, force yourself into places where the light creeps in, the depression will lift.
My second bit of advice is especially valuable to people going through their first bout of bona fide blackeyed-dog blues: Read William Styron’s Darkness Visible.
The late Styron, best known for his novel Sophie’s Choice, published this harrowing 90-page account of his depression, subtitled A Memoir Into Madness, in 1990.
His account of how he felt was the first time I’d read a genuine account of how I felt. If he could write about how I felt, he must feel it, too. I was not alone. So you know, the book is as much about his recovery from depression as it is about his descent into it.
I ache for Florence Leung’s family, for the child who will never fully know mom. By the accounts that have been shared, she was a wonderful woman. She would have got through this. I know that.
If you are in a similar place: Get help; know it will pass.
And, if at this exact moment you are unable to move and know of no where to turn, my email is above.