When I tell people I struggle with depression, there is one universal question.
“How long have you been depressed?”
I wish I knew. I wish there was some magical date I could point to and say, “See, this day I became ill. Broken. That is the day the darkness invaded the world.” For some people there is a specific day they can point to. There is a severe and tragic event which brought the darkness upon them.
But that is their story to tell.
My story lingers. I have always had a funny haze in my vision. The chemicals in my brain which are out of tune and cause my depression have been playing discord all through my life. The darkness has always been there, lingering. The words I remember hearing the most as a child were, “What’s wrong?” Everyone always thought I looked sad, I thought that was just who I was.
It has taken me a long time, with a lot of searching through my past to realize just how far back the imbalance has affected my life. I have prodded my parents with questions about what I was like as a child. I always remember being termed “overly sensitive,” which may have been a fair assessment, but an incorrect diagnostic. My mom tells me about how I would wake up in the morning, bright eyed and ready to take on the world; out of nowhere I would be crying as if all the chocolate in the world had vanished in an instant.
“But what was the trigger? What would set me off?” I asked one night. She looked at me with eyes still bewildered from the memory and answered she had no idea.
It was more than just the manic attitudes, it was my skewed perspective. I remember my childhood as one of alieness. I always felt out of place, disjointed from my peers, unwanted; feelings which were most often unspeakable because they were indefinite. They were lingering. There was no proof to my thoughts, no bullies which pushed me around, or home situations which would make me doubt that I was loved. Yet from somewhere in the back of my mind, the voice always whispered.
My mothers voice tells a different story. She tells the story of the girl who was the leader of the pack. Apparently I was the head of some girl gang which would march up and down our street terrorizing the neighborhood cats with good intentions. There is one story which makes me laugh the most. She actually had to go to my teacher and ask her to tell the kids to give me some breathing room. It seems I had a mild breakdown because I was being rushed by all the kids who wanted to play with me.
Really? They wanted to play with me? Even tainted with motherly affection, these two people don’t match up. So what I do when I think about the division in my soul?
I laugh.
I have to. Laughter is an excellent weapon against the lingering darkness. Laughter raises the endorphins in my brain, which fights the imbalance. Laughter changes my perspective. Laughter is contagious. Laughter helps me face the dreaded question, “How long have you been this way?”
How long have you been crazy, overly emotional, out of balance, crying, silly, manic, sensitive, broken?
My whole life.
As an example I like to share this story, because it makes me laugh.
I remember as a kid. I was only 7 or 8. My whole family was intertwined in the living room as only a family can be and we were watching the Public Broadcasting Station. You remember, it was the discovery channel before cable. It had all the nerdy shows on it, like a thorough presentation of the human reproductive system. This was the show we were watching.
The announcer was going into specific details about a women’s menstrual cycle, and how the changing hormones could cause PMS. Symptoms of PMS could include mood swings, irritability, and hypersensitivity.
My older brother, with a slightly frightened look in his eyes turned to my parents and only asked one question.
“You mean she is going to get worse?”
That is freaking hilarious.
Continuing the adventure,
Jess
Jess Boctor 