Ben Story (Hush)

*TRIGGER WARNING: This article contains stories about living with chronic depression and having suicidal thoughts (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255)

Depression’s kind of a weird thing, and while that’s a serious understatement, it’s true. One day it’s sharp, violent, and angry, on others it’s dull, heavy, and desolate. It’s as varied as the range of emotions a person can feel.

I’ve been dealing with some form of depression since about age thirteen, but I don’t think I knew it at the time. I didn’t feel sad, I had, like many people still have, the misconception that depression is limited only to sadness. What I did feel was inferior, to my friends, my classmates, my family, to the version of myself I thought I should be. Anytime I fell short of perfection I would panic, burst into tears, completely freeze up. I’d be inconsolable.

There was one occasion, I forgot my science homework and I completely broke down. I yelled through my tears for my friends to leave me alone, that I was fine. I wasn’t fine. Clearly. One mistake made me less than what I should be. Whatever that was, I didn’t know.

It was another year before my mom started taking me to therapy. Looking back on it now she must have had some idea of what was going on even when I didn’t. My mom and dad both deal with depression and have for most of their lives, and I have in them support that many people don’t. But, no thirteen-year-old wants to talk to their parents and it was another four years of angry outbursts, emotional breakdowns, and a general refusal to admit that there was anything wrong.

This is when it was the worst it ever was. Seventeen was hard. Nothing I did was good enough, I was furious with myself for falling short of a standard no one was holding me to but me. I felt worthless. I’d refuse to talk to anyone, I was so quick to anger, I’d scream at people at the slightest provocation and I hated myself for it. I spent hours walking around aimlessly to try to clear my head, to vent privately so I wouldn’t take it out on another person. Nothing scared me more than hurting someone I loved so I isolated myself as much as I could, but my refusal to communicate only made the moments my emotions broke though even worse. Sleeping for thirteen hours, staying in bed longer because I just wasn’t worth the effort of getting out of bed. Spending the weekend laying on the couch watching TV because I already knew no one wanted to see me.

I hit a turning point when, one night, after months of thinking about it I knew I didn’t want to deal with anything anymore. I was laying bed thinking only about how I wished it all would just stop, the pressure, the anger, all of it. It wasn’t that I wanted to die just that I didn’t think I could handle my life anymore, suicide felt like my only option. But while I thought about how to kill myself I couldn’t help but feel selfish. Who was I to make that decision? What would my friends and family think? I was worried about it, but the whole point was so I wouldn’t have to worry about anything, no pressure, no stress. I wouldn’t be a burden on anyone anymore with all my stupid emotional bullshit. It really was my only option, and there was a moment of peace when I knew exactly what I had to do.

For a split second I wasn’t worried about anything, there was no more pressure. It didn’t matter how worthless I was because I’d be gone soon. But as fast the feeling came it went and I was scared, terrified of dying. I was so afraid my body went numb and I curled into a ball under my sheets and cried. I was furious because I choked, I couldn’t follow through, I was pathetic. I cried myself to sleep that night.

Something of that night must have shown through because soon afterward my mom had me double down on therapy and despite my reservations I started taking antidepressants. I knew my parents had both taken them for years and I knew they worked for them, but I’d heard horror stories of people’s depression getting worse, deadly side effects. Moreover, I didn’t want people to think I was crazy. Between therapy and actually talking to my parents I started learning healthy ways to deal with my depression, not the least of which is just knowing I’m depressed and knowing what those thoughts are. It doesn’t make them go away, but it helps to know where they come from. I’ve been on Prozac for seven years now. Antidepressants don’t work for everyone, I know that, but they work for me. They’re not a fix but they help.

I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have depression for the rest of my life, but I know what it is and I know how to deal with it at this point. My depression is a part of me but I try not to let it own me. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t but that’s the way it goes.