The hindsight at the end of the tunnel
Getting out of depression kinda sucks. But in a good way.
It has been a while. Except for the current tragic state of the world, it’s going well. It seems like I have shaken off a small decade of recurring depression. That doesn’t mean that the work is done, far from it. Not having to fight yourself only means that finally, you can start fighting for yourself.
I recently read an article suggesting that depression is “a unique state of consciousness.” Instead of looking at it as a bundle of symptoms, you can understand depression as an “existential shift in how life is experienced.” This feels true. Depression is a state that can creep up on you. And it’s so hard to put to words why all those simple things became so damn difficult. Looking back on a decade of depression after finally having stepped out of it, I can barely recognize how I was. It’s almost like an elusive dream.
Viewing depression as a state of consciousness explains why it can take time even to realize what’s going on. For me, at least, it wasn’t a clear-cut thing. I didn’t wake up with it. My depression bloomed in a messy mix of emotional unawareness, behavioral change, and loss of existential purpose. I learned to mask my vulnerability and put on a mask; my facade of normalcy diverted me. The transition into another state of consciousness is hard to notice unless you do regular therapy or have a practice of taking a step aside and looking at yourself without judgment and shame.
I have found it harder to write about experiencing depression for the last couple of months. It’s like I don’t know what to say because it feels distant and vague. As the author of “The Depressive Newsletter,” this isn’t exactly ideal. I thought that the value of my writing was to relate to others who suffer. Most of the posts come from articulating from within a depressive state; words written as a healing process. Now, I find it tricky to relate to the frame of mind that I had just a couple of months back. It’s profoundly weird.
And then, I realized that recovering from depression is part of the experience. And it’s not without hardship. It makes you understand what you have lost out on, and it quickly forms a separate form of existential crisis. Hopefully, the silver lining is that you (hopefully) also realize that you are somewhat in control of your destiny. And that reclaimed agency can keep you afloat and thrive.
You aren’t your depression, but it does change you
I feel like I have been born-again. Silly little things become significant. It’s like when you’re in love and songs suddenly start making sense to you. Not only is there a range of new songs that makes sense to you, but, oh, food is supposed to taste great and be exciting and not just as a distraction. The act of tasting food is its own thing you can appreciate! Oh, you can just get out of bed after 8 hours of sound sleep. Aha, it’s actually kind of lovely to wash your face every morning or to just go out for a walk because that’s just a thing you can do now without much deliberation. Or plan for fun things to do in the future, even though they might not happen. Or you are primarily being truly grateful without the feeling that you don’t deserve whatever good thing came to you. Ah, it’s OK to cry and be vulnerable and actually feel your emotions.
Depression isn’t a constant solid state, it’s more like a cloud. Of course, there have been moments and times where I have enjoyed life. The difference is that I have, for the past year, learned a lot about myself and my trauma responses and reinforcing behavior. The constant feeling of “wrongness” is pretty much gone. I can remember times through the years when it truly felt like I was locked inside myself with no way out. There was a will but no way for me to execute on it. That dissonance is gone. I am just myself.
The article mentioned above comments on this too:
[…] framing depression as a state of consciousness helps to explain the ebb and flow of the symptoms of depression over time, in which sufferers feel like a different person in each stage.
Last fall, my partner of 17 years reminded me that I used to be different before I got severely depressed. I had a network of friends; I engaged in various projects, I had drive and initiative. I was a different person back then than I had become. Fortunately, for once, I was receptive to what she said. She was correct. I’m not sure she’s aware of how significant that observation has been to me. It came at the right time. I needed that reminder. It set me out on a path to redefine who I am.
Now that I can feel a fuller range of emotions, I allow myself to do so. If I feel like crying, I do. If I feel grateful, I make sure to articulate it. If I feel angry, I acknowledge that I do. Finally, I don’t have shame coming in the way of vulnerability. At least, much less than it used to.
One of the things that depression can take from you is memory, making it hard to think clearly. I had forgotten who I had been in my mid-20s. The traumatic events of losing my best friend, who un-alived himself, being blamed for it by his family, and the loss of identity from failing to finish my Ph.D. and leaving the academy, set me out on a course where I lost track of who I was. I found refuge in work where I could act out a role, but that was it. I withdrew from social relationships, pretty much ceased to have any hobbies, and didn’t invest much time in friends or family.
Slowly, I became that type of toxic guy who didn’t like himself. I compensated for my insecurity by seeking validation from the few things I managed to do and being defensive towards people who expected more from me. My work got the best of me. My partner the rest of me. Everyone else got pretty much nothing.
Coming out of depression is no cakewalk
It’s exhilarating to be again able to enjoy the big and small things: To be emotionally receptive (I’ve cried more the last couple of months than I have since adolescence) and being able to enjoy the feeling of looking forward to things. To deeply have a sense of agency. To not be held back by anxiety and hesitation. But coming out of depression also comes with a great deal of regret and sadness. Because you realize three things:
How easy all those hard things is, which makes the suffering feel pointless.
How much time and opportunity you have lost.
The people you couldn’t be there for and that got the bitter end of your depression.
For example, I can now sit down and spend about 30 minutes and have a pretty good rough plan of what a weekend vacation for me and my partner could look like. And I’d find that activity enjoyable in itself. A year ago, if I even had that impulse, I’d maybe put it on a list and build up anxiety for days. And if I managed to muster the energy to sit down, I’d stress out and think that whenever I found it wasn’t good enough or that it would be disappointing. And then I wouldn’t do it. And I would become defensive about not doing anything as well.
When you have been depressed for over seven years, there is no lack of situations like this. And when your memory starts coming back, you realize how different you’d choose to react now, to back then. The most challenging thing is that you become receptive to how your depressed presence must have been for those close to you. It can be humiliating and regretful.
Now that I’m where I hoped to be when I started therapy and untangling from the depressive state, I can’t say I was ready for the aftermath. Still, I welcome it. Even though it’s hard to look back at all that missed opportunity. Even though there’s hurt, sorrow, and even resentment.
Because I’m able to choose how I want to react to it. I don’t have to punch through molasses to connect will to action.
It’s a regained feeling of self. It’s fraught, weird, and wonderful.
Veldig godt og inspirerende å lese❤️