Depression came calling last month. No
tragedies befell me, no cancer recurrence or family deaths. A bunch of
little nothings in particular over several unremarkable months imperceptibly
mounted a sneak attack on my mojo. I couldn’t write a thank you note, let
alone a blog. I missed appointments and struggled to focus
on the ones I did not forget.
A couple of weeks ago I took a step
back and recognized that my old nemesis, depression, had moved in. I have an
intimate knowledge of this condition as a psychotherapist, but more
importantly, as a patient. So I knew what to do for myself to get well, the
first being to reach out to safe people and let them know I needed support.
One such person is a leader in breast
cancer activism, and to my surprise she admitted that she, too, was struggling
with depression. Neither of us had known that the other was in trouble, and we
both felt encouraged by the empathy shared.
Because that shared vulnerability
bolstered me so deeply, I decided to share my own experience with suicidal
depression to let others know that they are not alone, and that things do get
better. Below is a meditation I wrote thirty years ago about my
DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
Often I would cry
through the night, the family mercifully unaware of yet another collapse.
On one such night I sobbed alone by the fire until my sides hurt. I
frantically thought of harming myself, or ending my life impulsively, before
the part of me that wanted to live could stop me. Such thoughts terrified
me, that I might lose control and kill myself. I had to evaluate my
feelings about dying as opposed to living in agony: I did want to die, to
end my suffering, but I kept holding on because wholeness is worth the struggle
(so I heard) and because I knew my dying would hurt my family too much.
Besides, what if the unpardonable sin was suicide (a notion I rejected when in
my right mind) then I would only succeed in condemning myself to an eternity
of the despair I sought to escape. Anyway, suicide was not an option for
me because I had already promised God to keep myself alive.
As these questions rummaged through my beleaguered mind I trudged through day
after endless day, looking at the clock for signs of nearing darkness and the
escape into sleep. "Only ten minutes have passed?" Then
sleep would give way to another day of waiting for hands on the clock to move.
Three steps forward, two steps back—permanent residence in the pit gave way to
moments up, then moments linked with others to give me a day of relief.
Days linked to each other into periods of something like happiness. I
functioned again as a wife and mother, yet gloom clutched my heart. I
looked like a concentration camp victim, even when I smiled. Inevitably I
would buckle under the effort, and plummet to the pit.
THE PIT
The
pit is filled with tarry mud that weighs heavily on my limp soul. With
titanic effort I lift my head, look around at the black heaviness, and drop my
head in defeat.
I
pray for death.
God
is silent.
Eventually
the misery of despair yields to the agony of hope; I push through the layer on
top of me, gradually working my way to a standing position. From there I can
see where I've been and where I need to go.
I
must scale a very steep grade that is covered with a thick layer of mud oozing
downward, engulfing me if my concentration on the ascent slips, i.e., simple
things like keeping the head up and forward, lifting one foot up, down, then
the other up, down, straining all the while against the pull of the mud.
When
I stumble from exhaustion, or from looking down, I collapse, and hope
vanishes. But I learn that if I scoop the muck from my eyes, to my
amazement I find that I am not at the bottom of the pit—my face is mired only
a pace or two back from where I fell. All
is not lost!
It
just feels that way as long as my face stays in the mud.
So
I drag myself up again…and again…and again, NOT
from the bottom of the pit, but
from a ledge on the wall that I could not see from below.
And
from here I see glimpses of a rim of this pit where I hope I shall be able to
step clear out of the mud, shake off all the residue, and run and play and laugh again.
But
never so far that I would not look for others in the pit, to show them how to
get out.
I did recover from that Major Depression with the
help of good therapists and appropriate medication. I have had ups and downs,
but never as severe as my time in the pit, not even during two bouts with
breast cancer.
My recent dip into depression was painful and immobilizing, but
short-lived, largely because I have learned how to read the signs and take
action quickly. It is very common for
cancer patients to experience depression of varying degrees of severity. It is
critical to talk about it, and to get professional help in severe cases.
