About Depression
I posted this yesterday on Facebook, and a lot of people responded, so I'm reposting here.
When I was a teenager, I was very depressed and suicidal. When I told people in my church, they admonished me to pray to Jesus rather than seek mental health services. I was taught that depression was a spiritual problem, either an attack from Satan or a problem of sin in my own life. Either way, I was made to feel ashamed and at fault for not handling it better. It was an incredibly dark time in my life.
I did see a psychiatrist and started antidepressants, and for a while I bought into the notion that depression was just a "chemical imbalance" that could be treated with drugs. While this was helpful in that it helped take away some of my shame and guilt for feeling the way I did, the truth is the antidepressants helped very minimally, if at all. Now I know that while brain chemistry plays a role in mental illness, much of this is poorly understood, and the pharmaceutical industry exploits this lack of understanding to sell us drugs (for a good overview of the critique of the "chemical imbalance" model, with links to academic work, read this blog post: http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/curious/201403/what-causes-depression-myths-about-chemical-imbalances ). As I've grown older, I've understood that a lot of my depression was an entirely reasonable reaction to overwhelming circumstances in my life- my family was falling apart, there was a lot of anger and fighting going on at home as well as financial instability, I was struggling at school in an environment that wasn't conducive to my style of learning, and I didn't feel there was any place in my life I could feel accepted or understood. I've since learned to recognize what I call "my people"- the kindred spirits, the ones who have recognized and owned their suffering and as a result have made in their hearts and lives space for love, healing, and non-judgement. I've learned to reach out and ask for help, even when it is scary. I've learned to accept that help, and also to accept the limitations of human beings, even the best ones. Melancholy still comes and goes, as it does to some degree for all of us. I have learned to accept that it does not last forever- it ebbs, it flows, and I am powerless over it. I have learned to accept it, and to listen to any lessons it might have for me. It's taught me that I can't live my life alone, that connection and community are essential to my mental health. It's taught me that that I can't live my life pursuing things just because my peers, culture, and media tell me that they will give me worth- material security, status, and accomplishment don't mean anything when my spirit isn't being fed and my gifts and abilities aren't being used in service of the greater good. It's taught me to be honest and authentic, because keeping truth locked up inside behind a facade is corrosive to to my soul. I am thankful. I'm saying all this because the death of Robin Williams, and more than that your reactions to it, are bringing up something very deep inside me. We are gutted when someone so funny, talented, and successful succumbs to their demons. By all accounts Robin Williams was a kind man, had friends and family that loved him, had been to therapy and 12 step, and had all the financial resources to seek the best help in the world at his disposal, and yet it still wasn't enough. It's terrifying to think that I, despite all my best efforts, could find myself standing at the edge of that deep dark chasm again. We live in a world that gives us many, many reasons to be depressed and angry and suicidal. We are constantly told that our worth is measured by how well we conform to someone else's standard- whether it's an impossible ideal of beauty, having the right clothes, toys, taste in food or music, being the perfect mother, wife, husband, son, the perfect corporate drone, the good Christian or Muslim or Jew. Our planet is spiraling out of control, with droughts, floods, poisoned rivers and melting ice caps. We know that we are responsible and yet we are captive to the social, political, and economic forces that resist change. Wars rage in the Middle East and between friends on Facebook arguing over what should be done. And in the past few days Michael Brown was shot to death by police, proving once again that a young black man can barely walk down the street, much less express anger or fear or any other kind of recognizably human emotion, without being viewed as a threat to be wiped out. All of these things make me feel depressed. They make me feel powerless and listless and like drowning my emotions in various addictions- television, chocolate, cheese fries, shopping, alcohol, you name it. But I know better now. I know that the powers that be want me, all of us, to do just that- don't challenge the status quo, don't ask why kids have to die in Gaza or Florida or Missouri, don't ask why women have to have long, silky locks, thin bodies, and fair, unlined skin, don't ask why people have to work long, hard hours and endure disrespect for an an increasingly unsustainable wage. Just buy more stuff and numb out, and when the thing they sold you doesn't work anymore, don't worry, they've got some more stuff to sell you. Enough. If we're ever going to tackle the epidemic of depression, we have to stop believing it's just a mysterious disease or a personal failing. I look at all the brave, wonderful people who are saving their own lives every day by choosing to engage- by fighting for the rights of LGBTQ people, immigrants, workers, women, and every day citizens; by working to create communities of acceptance and inclusion where people can find healing and hope; by opting out of the consumer capitalist paradigm to create lifestyles that are more ecologically, spiritually, and psychologically sustainable; by facing their own pain, fear, and anger to find the love buried deep inside- I look at all this and I am inspired to hope that maybe there is a way out. These are all difficult undertakings, and I don't mean to shame or belittle those who are too emotionally, physically, or materially incapacitated to do them. I have been there. But a wise teacher once told me that those who do difficult spiritual work do it in part on behalf of those who can't, and I know that I am stronger now because of people in my life that did the work when I couldn't. I am so grateful to them, and to all of you. To those of us who can't right now, who are so overwhelmed with pain and suffering that they can't even begin to imagine a way out, please find someone to reach out to. It might take a few tries, but I guarantee there is someone who is willing to accept you and empathize with you, and that is the first step. To those of us who can, please don't let yourself get distracted or discouraged. Find the people, places, and practices that sustain and nourish you. Listen to your sadness and let it tell you when to slow down and pay attention. I am reminded of the words of Mary Oliver, "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" I don't want to spend mine in isolation. I don't want to spend it numbed out, to my own pain or that of others. So here I am, reaching out. Who's with me?
