Sneaky

Depression is a stealthy beast. Anyone who knows it will tell you how it can creep up, silent and subtle. It slinks along behind you, beside you, gathers over you and whispers dark secrets in your ear. And still you may not see it, even as it slowly weighs you down. You know all the signs. You know this creature well. But so devious it is by nature, it slips by in secret every time.

One of depression's self defense mechanisms is the intense self doubt which it fosters. I am aware that I suffer with depression. It is in my medical records. It is acknowledged by every doctor I meet. I am prescribed medication for it. I am vocal about stigma around mental health issues; I am open about my illness. I refer to it as an illness. But I don't believe it, at a deeper level. I am not sure that it is an illness. I am not sure that I am suffering enough to warrant compassion. When I am depressed, I don't believe I deserve sympathy. I feel like a fraud. I cannot really be 'depressed'! (I hear the word as spat by a dispassionate judge). Sometimes I wonder why 'depression' is named as an illness by medical professionals, when their behaviour and every piece of evidence seems to say otherwise, that you are simply living incorrectly, that your attitude is wrong, or that you are emotionally lazy. The line between 'illness' and a less clinical unhappiness or dissatisfaction, and the question of culpability, is a matter of contention, and I am not sure on which side I stand - but I am profoundly confused by this dichotomy. I do tend to think in 'black and white', it is hard to choose a point in the middle. I see all of the points on the spectrum equally clearly, but my mind recoils in horror at the notion of choosing a conceit; which equally, seems imperative and necessary. I am one or other other - nothing in between - but which one?

I know that I am feeling very bad, that I am struggling, and that's all that really matters, and that means depression (with the telltale symptoms of lack of interest, shame, guilt, loneliness, tearfulness, numb, and so on).  I 'know' that I am depressed, but the alternative explanation looms - the idea that I am simply weak, a hypochondriac, a lazy, self obsessed brat. I talk as if I am certain that I am ill, that my issues are clinical, that I am deserving of treatment - as if I am certain that I am not lazy of mind, self indulgent, melodramatic.

I know the depth of my depression when it is on me, I am aware of how low I am on the scale. Or I think I know - I am sure I know. I see the signs.

However, depression is deceitful. Only when relief comes, only when some light and air comes back into the world and your mood lifts for a while - do you truly see how low you were, how tightly the black dog had its jaws around your neck. It is an impressive trick - to have you deny yourself and not know it, to know your suffering and yet be blinded from it. To starve yourself of kindness.

You sense the shadow that crouches over you, but... the name of the beast, the true knowledge of it is somewhere at the back of your mind, the tip of your tongue. You cannot quite recall it. You might know it, know it by name, the thing blocking out the sun; if only you would raise your head and look up. And yet you never look up.