Trigger Warning: Suicide, Depression

Mental health is a funny thing. It is not static. It changes and evolves each day, moment by moment as our brains absorb more information about the world and about ourselves. It is also extremely personal. Unlike a broken arm or a bruise or a cut, outsiders cannot see if you are suffering with mental health issues. And I speak from experience.

As a member of the millennial generation I have been blessed to witness the miraculous transformation of the behavioral health field. Mental illness was a stigmatized dirty secret in the 1970s and 1980s when government deinstitutionalization put many behavioral health patients on the street, leading to an increase in their imprisonment, homelessness, and the overarching reputation that they are violent and dangerous. But as we moved into the latter part of the 1980s and the 1990s, an increase in the fields of neuroscience and medicine led to mental illness being viewed as an organic and treatable issue. People became much more comfortable talking about it in public spaces. It was no longer a myth, but a malady. On social media and in popular culture attending therapy has become not only the norm, but the trend. But more than just a fad, it is a real attempt by young adults to gain access to mental health services in a way they never have before. Older generations considered mental illness a myth and exercised a lot of negative judgment about treating it, so quality professional help was difficult to find. Sons were told to “man up” and daughters were told they were “too emotional.” But more recent generations are having active discussions about their mental health, how they’re taking care of it, and how to access resources for ongoing help.

One thing that has been gaining some spotlight recently, but not nearly enough, is the problem of high functioning depression. And the suicides of highly successful, intelligent, seemingly happy people in the media (i.e. Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain) has highlighted the fact that depression doesn’t always mean laying in bed for days or crying or persistent sadness. For a high functioning individual battling depression, sometimes the signs are astonishingly subtle. It looks like a high performing co-worker constantly mentioning how tired they are. It looks like your usually motivated friend who always makes time to go running deciding to take a break from it. It is your incredibly talented hairdresser who is making time in between appointments to seek therapy. It looks like your witty, quick humored family member posting funny-ironic posts on Facebook but also casually joking about depression. And while today’s constant use of social media might lead you to think that you can keep an eye on your friends and family with more ease, it can actually serve as a cloak for those who don’t want you to recognize the symptoms.

This morning I texted a friend to say hello. I posted a funny meme. I made jokes with my co-workers. I checked off everything on my to-do list and my boss praised my hard work. My behavior is all indicative of a well-adjusted, social, motivated human being. But the onlookers who have a window into my life don’t know that less than 10 hours ago I was suicidal. Having received bad news late one night from an even worse human, hopelessness and pure, black despair set in. I couldn’t fall back to sleep no matter how hard I tried. My brain kept ruminating about every stressor I had (past and present), and I was hyper focused on the injustice of everything that had been happening to me. To my family. Things I could not control, but so badly wanted to. And then the dark thoughts crept in. Thoughts that are always unwelcome and unwanted, but are so strong that they are unavoidable to someone with any form of clinical depression.

To back-pedal a bit, I should mention that I have been seeking therapy prior to this. The family turmoil has been happening for about a full year now, and the barrage of court dates and lost relationships and damage to my own self-esteem took its toll in a big way. The first therapist I had tried was for simple talk therapy, and she was not a good fit. There was a large age gap between us and I found it hard to relate to her. But currently I am exploring a combination of medication and cognitive behavioral therapy, and that seems to be helping more. In the last two months the suicidal thoughts were decreasing, and in the past several weeks they were actually nonexistent. Until this one night. When things get to be overwhelming, the darkness creeps in. And although I finally sought help and was relieved to get a diagnosis of Depression (at last, it was official), that hardly helped me when I was in the throes of an episode.

My brain began thinking of ways that I could quietly end my life without waking my husband, who was asleep downstairs. As my beloved dog dozed peacefully beside me, I laid there and racked my brain. Surrounded by things I love, still I could not think of any reason to continue living. To offer even more background, a family member of mine about a year ago began an intense battle with addiction and child custody. As a result, the family divided. While a few of us continued to support and help that person, the rest of the family jumped ship pretty quickly. What’s worse, they embraced friendships with the people whose goal was to cause him so much pain that his addiction would win. His own family began rooting for him to fail, and along with their abandonment of him, they also abandoned me. About a year later, most of my support system remained collapsed and I was trying desperately to adjust to a new normal. Some days were better than others, but no days were great. And in the worst of times I kept thinking that if 90% of my family was willing to sever all ties with me over things that were not my fault, then I must have no worth. Why should I stay? The family member that I stood by throughout the last year, fought for, cried for, gave my first year of marriage for, and nearly destroyed my life for was giving up. All of my efforts were for naught, and despite knowing how much I had sacrificed, he didn’t care enough. And still, many times I have hated myself far more than anyone else did.

This pain was not pretty or glamorous or poetic. It was gritty and painful and empty. And nobody knew. Because on the outside when there were eyes and ears nearby, I was normal. I turned on the humor and wit, got up in the morning and made it to work, made my deadlines, did my job well. I grocery shopped and paid the bills on time and walked the dog. I did all the things that would make me appear fully functioning. But nobody saw that the moment I got home from work, I got into bed and didn’t get out until it was time to do it all again the next day.

I am typing this mostly in the past tense, but the reality is, days like this still happen. And given my reactive depression and my sensitivity to hardship, they will likely always happen. So I write this as a cautionary tale to those without depression, a plea to those who do, and a reminder to myself that for every bad day, there is a good one. To those seeing this from the outside, please check on the people you love. They will tell you they’re fine, they will tell you not to worry, and you will want desperately to believe them. But if your instinct tells you otherwise, then address it. And address it fully and seriously. It is far better to be wrong than regretful. To those seeing this from a place of experience, please reach out. I understand that in the darkest of moments it is extremely hard, if not impossible to see that it can get better. This is what makes depression so terrifying. The person suffering from it truly does not see a way out. But then a new day dawns and the sun comes out, just a little bit. So please, hold on for the sun. It will come out eventually. It has to.