Forged in Darkness: My Battle with Clinical Depression

This is the first in my series of introductory posts. While I will offer more in the sorts of introductions later, I thought it best to begin with the darkness that defined me. This is the story of my battle with clinical depression. 

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I have no idea what I’m doing.  

The sun is rising. It’s probably time to go to sleep. I’ve been up all night, trying to escape whatever it is that’s plaguing me. That’s really the heart of the matter, the invisible hand that doesn’t explain itself but toys with my life nonetheless. My father is getting ready for work, but our paths don’t cross. I shut down my computer, walk across the room to my bed, and sleep.   

It’s late. School is probably out by now, but it’s not like that matters. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday used to have a meaning, but now it’s just another day. I roll out of bed and head downstairs, hoping to avoid anyone and everyone. Human interaction would only force recognition of the situation. Donuts for breakfast. Is this breakfast? It’s probably 3 pm. Honestly, who cares? It’s donuts. I go back upstairs, getting on my computer to drill away my mind with escapism. Later I’ll eat pizza, then maybe some pizza in the middle of the night, before sleep again. Staying up at night then closing my eyes when the bringer of light rises in the window next to my chair. From darkness to darkness. What am I doing with my life? Dreams. 

The future. Success, a family, maybe kids. Who am I to predict what will happen? Is the rest of my family there? That is yet to be determined. On the current path they aren’t. Then again, on the current path, am I? Opposites. Failure, death. Awake.   

Nothing to do today but waste my life.   

It wasn’t always so miserable. There was a time when I was mildly accepting of counseling, or at least willing to go. The meaning of Wednesdays. “We care about you.” If I just had the right help, maybe I’ll get better. The therapist was such a giving soul. He would stay over the time limit to make sure to squeeze all he could out of a session. I glance at the clock, and make sure my parents saw that the time was getting close to being over. Nothing. Again? Nothing. They aren’t concerned about the time. We finish, heading back home. I should be going to rehearsal. We pull up to the empty parking lot. One woman exits the locked front doors, walking to her car to go home to her loving family. I’m not getting out. There are a few other cars left in the lot, those still restrained within the academic prison. I had wanted to leave on time, to make it to rehearsal on time. Being late wasn’t acceptable, in my eyes. We went home. I am stubborn.   

The diagnosis allows some wiggle room. I no longer get in trouble for truancy. Instead, the work is brought to me. This doesn’t change the meaninglessness of the task. The work sits there, and my ‘free spirit’ continues upon its violent path. I remember it as a Friday, though truthfully it could have been any day of the week. The cut off. The school has academic standards, whereas I did not. The sole light of the last candle was to be snuffed out as a result. I was not good enough. Goodbye friends, do not mourn for me. The show must go on! I could no longer participate in extra-curricular activities, as my curriculum was empty.   

Stasis. For months. Please don’t talk to me. Leave me alone.   

Go away. I’ve reached a point where I’ve given up on good relations with my family. My brother and I get along some, but my parents and I don’t. Any extended family is hours and hours away. At the same time, though, I’ve realized that there’s no replacing my family, I don’t get another. So I deal with what I have. That isn’t to say I don’t avoid them as much as possible.   

It’s August. I’ve received an extension on my online courses until school starts again. Somewhere in me there is a trickling spring of motivation, fortunately. The classes were a joke. Junior year, three “honors” classes. All A’s. My transcript will be shit. Do I even want to go to college? That seems like such an unexamined next step in the process. Internal conflict.  

Just go with the flow. Unexamined thoughts of a life in the river’s current. Senior year is smooth. I’m beginning to realize that people are meaningless, and next year I will never see the grand majority of these people ever again. That’s a nice idea.   

Somewhere along the way I feel the need to improve as a person. This begins a harsh phase of self-examination. Granted, I say a lot of dumb shit. This doesn’t reflect who I am as a person, whether others see me as my comments or not. Do I care about others’ opinions? Generally, no. But if you try to fuck with me or my future, that’s when it gets to me. I’m not a bad person, right? I try to self-examine. Is there any racism in my statements? How do I eliminate any gender bias within myself? How can I do something meaningful with my life? Society doesn’t make sense. What is the point of working a nine to five for some meaningless start-up when I could be working against the forces of child slavery? These thoughts aren’t healthy either.   

I’m not really sure what I’m doing with my life. I’m not really sure if I’m still depressed or not. I mean, of course it’s not the same as it was two years ago. I interact with the world on a daily basis. But at the same time, I’ve abandoned, in a way, the search for meaning in my life. Life is meaningless and then you die. Might as well experience what it has to offer along the way, right? I am cynical.   

What is the big point of all this? That’s all that anyone cares about. What did I learn from my ‘traumatic’ experience? Well, I’ve learned that it’s a great talking point for interviews. Sometimes I wonder if the depression was subconsciously self-inflicted, so that a white male from a small town and good upbringing would have more of a story. I’ll never know.   Nothing to do today but waste my life. Why am I living motionless? I’m not going to die. The only action is to move forward. So I do. Human society is a really fucked up place, and I’m a contributing factor.   

“When I die, fuck it I want to go to hell, ‘cause I’m a piece of shit it ain’t hard to fuckin’ tell.” – The Notorious B.I.G., “Suicidal Thoughts”.