Yesterday, my sister called and told me that you are depressed.

She said that you want to sleep most of the day, and that when you’re awake, you mostly just want to eat.

That you are sometimes angry, mostly irritable.

And she said that this has been going on for quite some time.

I’m sorry.

We’ve never met, but my sister says that you are amazing – funny and unique. She loves you.

I just wanted to say that when I heard about you, my heart ached.

Because a number of years ago, I was you, (or a lot like you, maybe).

Clinically depressed. 

I remember how my days were a fog, everything was flat and grey. And my skin was thin, my feelings right on the surface. Everyday comments could cut right through me.

And I would cry at random, even though there was nothing attached to the tears.

One time, I cried non-stop in my therapist’s office. I mean, I didn’t speak a word until I wrote her a check at the end of the session.

Sometimes we just need a witness to our pain. To feel the truth and have someone to hold onto it with us.

To say this is the worst.

It’s a confounding thing to live with a reality that can’t be explained. Something so ugly, so convoluted, so monotonous and draining. In fact, it is a nearly intolerable thing.

Sometimes we just need a witness to our pain. To feel the truth and have someone to hold onto it with us.

There is no one answer. No fix.

But people will try to help; after all you are so clearly in need of advice (right).

They tell you to exercise, see a therapist, takes meds, do yoga, meditate. Just get up and do something.

Mind over body (right).

But at the time, what I really wanted to say to my family was this:

I need you to listen. It will probably be a repetitive script of bitching, moaning, crying and feeling sorry for myself.

Still, just listen.

I need you to accept that I am trying, even though it doesn’t look like it.

I need you to accept me exactly as I am, not a better version of me.

And I would also say that I know that being around a depressed person is a colossal drag. I know because I live it every moment.

But I need you to know that this depression is in my body, just like some other disorders, like diabetes, MS, or epilepsy, the symptoms are physical.

Which is part of the problem, because I have to walk around and pretend that I’m okay when my brain is not really functioning.

It is an added burden – I carry my guilt along with your judgement and expectations – and it’s too much to handle, it is exhausting.

And so I comfort myself.

Eating takes away a bit of the pain, at least for a short time.

Sleep is my delicious, velvet escape.

But I guess the biggest thing I need right now is a simple, neutral acceptance.

Anyway, as the years have gone by, what stands out the most, are the tiny moments of feeling okay – the sparks of possibility for relief, when I could escape my own head, even for a little while.

I remember when you sat with me and told me a story, or rubbed my feet, or when we just looked out at the yard, laughing at the chickens.

I remember that you stayed with me, even though it was such a hard, hard place to be. 

And you might not have been able to imagine my suffering, but when you sat with me, I felt so much less alone.

Time passes, this is always true.

But some things remain, deep down in the bones, the hard life experiences, like depression. The pain is baked forever into the marrow.

Even so, today, what surfaces in my memory is you. Your care gave me a whiff of hope; like oxygen to my body.

Your kindness, your patience, your love – you saved me.