Struggling With Depression

Depression has become extraordinarily prevalent in this country, especially among teens, and something I have been personally affected by. Given my disabilities, it’s quite easy for me to become depressed. For me, depression is an endless black void. I become lethargic, barely able to get through my studies. When I’m on a more even keel, I love to write, even though that writing is sometimes incredibly dark and brooding. Many people say that for them, writing is a balm, a way of relief when they are incredibly depressed.  But depression for me is so black that it’s almost impossible to pull something meaningful from it that will ignite my creative spark. Writing, for me, embodies passion and I suppose another way to describe depression is a total lack of passion.

According to my mom, when I get depressed, I sound rather like a drunk. Namely, I get incredibly maudlin, and there is usually an extended pity party.  I remember one day, I was expounding upon the fact that I couldn’t do anything.  In an effort to cheer me up, Mom asked if I wanted some popcorn.  “No,” I said, still in the midst of the sulks.  

“Why?” she asked, since I usually enjoy popcorn.

“Because I can’t make it,” I responded.

My mother, who I now realize had decided enough was enough, pushed back her chair and walked to the kitchen counter. “Come over here, now,” she said.

When I had made my way over to her, she sat a package of popcorn in front of me. “The bowls are to your right, and you need to set the microwave for three minutes,” she explained. Then she gave me a brief instruction on what to do after it had stopped popping.

Mom left me to struggle with the package. And, after what seemed like an eternity, I got the popcorn in the microwave and popping. After it finished, I found the right end, opened it and poured it into the bowl. What a great feeling to have accomplished a task all by myself! I was incredibly cheerful for the rest of the day.  

Then, we moved on to other things. Mom goes through the same drill, telling me where things are and giving me basic instruction on how to complete the task. Slowly, I began to realize that, for me, the best remedy for depression was activity, or more specifically, activity that helped me further my goal of living independently.  
I remember one day I was telling Mom that I didn’t want a live-in aid. “Then don’t have one,” she said.

“They will make me have one,” I wailed back.

“Not if you prove you’re competent,” she said.

We sat in silence for a while and then she said: “The first step to not having a live-in aid is picking up some of the slack around here. I fold the clothes, I wash the dishes, and I get all your meals and snacks, which I don’t mind doing.  But you can’t set a double standard and say you don’t want an aid while letting me do a lot of things you could do because it’s more convenient.”  

After stalking off in high dudgeon, I finally realized she was probably right.  

So, I decided to take up some of the tasks I didn’t like, especially folding clothes.  It’s so incredibly tedious. But once I started doing these things, I began to feel better, have more self-confidence, and was actually able to write something decent.

There are lots of anti-depressant medicines out there, of which I have tried a couple. They both made me sick, nauseous, and more lethargic than I was before I started taking them. For me, taking personal responsibility and simply doing things to meet my goals has been a far better cure than drugs.

However, I am in no way saying that, for many people, these medicines play a vital role in restoring their equilibrium, because they do. I am simply sharing with you my own personal experience with depression and what I found worked for me.