Survivors Anonymous

{From Bekah}

"When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission, we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are. When depression sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission, we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark, ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness, afraid that people will worry and more afraid that they won't." ~ Jenny Lawson

1) Where I am

I'm *this* close to remission. And I'm as keen as a peach to be done with this tumor-on-my-throat shit. Finally, I can fall asleep without contemplating big picture cancer questions like, "Will I die from this?," "What song do I want played at my funeral?," and "What if Chris moves on from the splendiforous experience that was me and finds somebody better?"*

But the closer I come to being cancer-free, the more challenging it is to grasp at sanity. The closer I get to being "better," the nearer I am to admitting my secret: I am scared to death of being OK. I am scared of being well. I am scared of not having a big, gnarly disease behind which I can cower and crouch and at which I can point my finger whenever something goes wrong.

Cancer is not my real problem. Depression goblins are. And they are evil wee fuckers who long ago burrowed into my brain and set up shop and have been whiling away like mini mind Nazis.

Don't get me wrong. I don't want to keep cancer. But, damn, I'd like to be able to keep throwing around the word. Because when I am cowering in my bed, shrinking from everything around me, vomiting into a bucket, and shivering from the anxiety that skitters across my skin and consumes my every thought, I want an excuse that doesn't sound weak.

"I have cancer," I can say. "I am too sick to make it out," I can say. "Maybe when I'm better," I can say.

That sounds so much more bold than saying, "I have depression," or saying, "I am too sad to make it out," or saying, "I don't know when I'll be better."

With non-terminal cancer, remission is the promise of that "better," a day when things will be right again. And that anticipation is such a visceral, raw elation.

But with depression, there is no gleeful light at the end of that bleak tunnel. There's only that dark passage, and you have to just keep walking, shining the flashlight that is hope, and praying that the light's beam will get you just that much farther toward the end. But there is no end. Or at least, it never feels like there is.

Depression is essentially a grown up version of building a blanket fort, except that in this case, your fort is you pulling your covers over your head and refusing to leave your bed. There's a hole in your very being. Sometimes that hole is lacking and sucking and sinking and in need of more from life. Other times, it is overstuffed, overtaxed, and overwhelmed. It is, as Charles Darwin once said, a "bitter mortification," that makes you choke on the apathy that forbids you from accomplishing the life you once thought you were meant to live.

2) Where it all started

Just like I didn't know I had cancer, I didn't know I had depression. I wasn't feeling depressed, just like I wasn't feeling like a giant tumor had a stranglehold on my thyroid.

Shortly after my wedding to my best friend, my soul sank. It dropped from my daily existence, and I only mimicked the spirit that I once had. As I've said in a previous post, the whole experience was, well, depressing. I stayed in bed all day with my cats, rarely showered, and looked like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock.

Chris tried to fix me, as best he could. He assumed all the chores. He earned the sole salary in our family. He rubbed my back, held me when I sobbed, bought me a kitten, told me I was his beautiful everything, and worked every second he could to make me feel worthwhile.

It wasn't enough, and that wasn't his fault.

So, one day, he sat across from me on the couch and said five words that changed my life. Just as Chris saved me by asking me to marry him, he saved me by threatening to leave me.

"I will get a divorce."

He didn't say this because he's a dick. He said this because he's a saint. For two full years, he tried to convince me to see a psychiatrist. I promised and then procrastinated. I begged and balked. I resisted and refused. And after enduring my pain right alongside me for 24+ months, my husband told me that he loved me too much to watch me suffer any longer, and that the only way he would stay by my side is if I considered myself worthy of how much he loved me. While it may sound like he was being a little bitch, I swear that he saved my life. He loved me enough to metaphorically drag me kicking and screaming away from my distorted view of reality.

And, oh, dear reader, how distorted it had become.

One day, while driving, this thought popped into mind: "It would be so easy to pull out in front of this semi." And then I thought, "Wow, that's cliche." And it is. But it isn't. Because in that moment, you're not thinking: "Let's run into a semi because all the cool kids want to." You're just sitting there, listening to NPR, and then you think about dying (and NO, that is NOT a normal reaction, all you public broadcasting haters, unless, of course, it's pledge week.)  

Wanting to die is not as dramatic as I expected. In my mind, being suicidal meant some charged emotional ordeal that involved staring into death's eyes and using every ounce of will power to restrain yourself from giving in. It's not like that at all, or at least, it wasn't for me. I was living my life, and then, suddenly, without warning, I thought about ending it. There was no big build up or mental debate. There was just a moment where I knew that, if it came right down to it, I could yank the wheel and that'd be it. Obviously, I didn't. But that's not the point. The point is that I could have.

3) Where I'm headed

I don't talk about depression often. It's uncomfortable. Not for me, though.

Instead, it's uncomfortable for you, for them, for whoever is listening. Nobody wants to hear about mental illness. It's too undefined, too incommodious. If I've learned anything this past year, it's that people would literally rather talk to you about your potential death than they would discuss your dark feelings.

"What stage are you?" "How are you feeling?" "What can I do to help?" "Will you lose your hair?" "Is it terminal?" 

I've heard these questions more times than I can count. When people learn about my cancer, they practically trip over themselves to know more, help more, empathize more. But when I mention that my tumor and subsequent treatments are relatively manageable and that instead I am struggling more with the depression that is a hormonal side effect, they politely nod and say something generic before they get back to probing about my tumor. I've even had people insinuate that while cancer is just an unlucky break, depression is a personal defect.

Anybody who implies, indicates, or flat-out tells you that depression is your fault needs to be kicked, and swiftly, in the ass. They are not your friend. They are a barrier to happiness. Nobody should devalue one disease and claim another as more valid. Depression is not a lack of character. It is a lack of serotonin.

If I've come to any one big realization, it's that just because you are not happy doesn't mean that you are deficient. Of love. Of kindness. Of compassion. Of joy. Of heart. Of that great essence that is you. You are not deficient. I am not deficient. That we are anything other than enough is just one of many lies depression whispers. 

And it pisses me off when other people listen to depression's lies instead of listening to me tell them what depression entails. It doesn't entail snapping my fingers and watching it evaporate in the face of diet, exercise, prayer, pills, or cats. All those things can help (especially the cats), but they are not guaranteed solutions.

Just like chemo or radiation only offer a (hopefully long-lasting) reprieve from cancer, so, too, do the "cures" from depression only offer a remission. Cancer might retreat into a hole, but we still monitor the hell out of it, waiting for it to peek its head out. So, too, does depression dissipate and re-emerge. But when your cancer retreats, you're a survivor, while you're merely "normal" when your mental illness withdraws.

4) Where I wish we all were

We're all stuck with our own share of shit. Some just don't have the right hormones to make it through undamaged. And make no mistake: Depression is medical, hormonal, and just as real of an affliction as a tumor.

I know. Because I've had both. And each rose to a level of pain and unpleasantness that left me gasping for air and hoping for just one moment without a mental or physical struggle. And just when I needed I reprieve the most, Chris made me see a doctor. As cliche as it sounds, it made all the difference. At the end of each session, my psychiatrist somehow manages to convince me that I am okay. That I am not alone. Which, I guess, is what I'm trying to tell you.

Whether it's cancer or depression, others know your agony. One in 10 people are diagnosed with depression, and the number of people who experience this particular mental illness in their lifetime is thought to be several times higher, as an estimated 80% of people with depression never seek treatment. With these estimations, it means that just as many people -- 1 in 3 -- are as likely to get depression as they are cancer. So, yes, others understand what it is like to combat 24/7 to keep your crap somewhat together. But these same others know that this war is win-able. No battle comes and goes without its scars. I'm dinged. I'm dented. But I've endured.

Because, no matter what society says, both cancer and depression are a battle, and both wars produce survivors. I'm ashamed of neither, and I'm damn proud that I'm beating both.

Now, enough of that sad stuff. A Study of Stuff will return to its regular ridiculous programming later this week. Maybe a post on mustaches? 



 *(Nope. "Places I Remember" by the Beatles. Not possible. I'm too damn awesome-sauce.)