Going to War With Depression

Have you ever had suicidal thoughts?

That was one of the first questions my therapist asked me.

Yes, I said. Although I never really gave them much thought. They kind of just appeared from time to time like an empty threat with no real motive. 

But I thought it was important to answer honestly. So I sat there going through the motions of sharing all my deepest, most personal thoughts with a complete stranger. 

I was 31 years old, getting therapy for the first time. I didn’t think it was for me, but at that point, depression had grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me into the darkness so deep I wasn’t sure how I would get out. I was desperate for help. 

I explained that I never planned to act on anything, but I acknowledged the thoughts were there.

When I was a teenager, the thoughts entered my brain so quietly that I don’t think I ever realized how depressed I had become. Middle school and high school had been difficult for me. I was used to being picked on at school, and it wasn’t much different at home. Both my parents were hypercritical of me. It seemed like I just couldn’t do anything right. My hair was always a mess. My clothes were inappropriate. I was too chubby or too skinny. My skin wasn’t clear enough. Every day it was something different. I never quite felt good enough.

Having a sister that was constantly adored and popular in school didn’t make things any easier. Later in life, I’d refer to myself as the rough draft child. I had all the same ingredients, but I lacked the fine-tuned editing by the hands of God. 

At some point, I learned to fade into the background. I remember thinking that if people would only ever notice the bad things about me, I would rather be invisible. So I became extremely shy. I didn’t really know how to interact with people anymore. At school, I stayed silent and nodded to whatever everyone else said. And at home, I retreated to my bedroom or the bathroom to be alone. I used to keep a journal where I would mark my sad days with a tear drop. The pages were crying out for help.

Around 13 years old, depression slowly began wrapping its arms around me, whispering thoughts of suicide in my ear. Several times on the car ride to school, I wondered what would happen if I opened the car door and rolled onto the highway. I wondered if anyone would care.

I overcame those thoughts. Went on with my life, with depression visiting me throughout the years. It’s not an easy war to win, but somehow, I always managed to suppress the thoughts.

When I found out my ex-boyfriend committed suicide, I realized that the war wasn’t always won. That people do, in fact, crawl into the darkness and never find the light again. His note had said, “the demons in my head were just too much.” In retrospect, I remember everything he had done to try and win the fight: reiki, yoga, music festivals, switching jobs, clinical trials – and still, it had been stronger than him. 

It was hard for many people to wrap their heads around his decision. But in a strange way, I understood. It’s hard to breathe when depression has a chokehold on you and anxiety tears at you from the inside. While I knew the feeling, depression never stayed at my bedside for too long. 

I think for me, the key was always curiosity. I knew that no matter how bad things seemed sometimes, it would always change. I just had to remain curious enough about what was around the corner. 

On a trip to Bali one year, I sat in a room full of strangers from every corner of the world doing yoga as rain fell against the window sills. The instructor had us all go into crow pose, and she said, “Just breathe. If you fall out of it, just try again. As long as you’re breathing, you get to try again.” 

Only when you stop breathing does potential die. You have to be curious about your story. You’ll never know if you fall in love, where you might end up or if your dreams come true if you stop. 

You have to believe there’s something better around the corner. That’s the only way you win. Just keep breathing.