All The World is a Psychologist

Everyone knows how to fix depression. Everyone. It is truly amazing. You don’t need a medical degree, a mastery of human behavior or cognitive development, a therapist license or to even know someone who has depression. Everyone has the answer. Your second cousin’s friend Bob has a coworker whose wife’s mother’s great aunt has depression, so they know what you need to do. I tried all the answers, and I am here to tell you that Great Auntie Agatha Ophelia doesn’t know any more about fixing me than your second cousin’s friend Bob’s dog .

As mentioned earlier, it started for me in my early twenties while I was in college. I had always been someone who embraced life, adventures, challenges and people. Then, it just stopped. I was either feeling nothing at all, or stuck in such a deep hole of dark emotion that it felt like a slow death.

The fixes came in fast and thick. “You must have unconfessed sin in your life and your relationship with God is broken.” So, I tried to fix that. I prayed more. On my knees, while walking, while standing, while crying, while going to classes, while in church, while out of church...you get the picture. I made lists of every sin I could think of that I even might have committed, spent hours on my knees begging God to show me the ones I hadn’t thought of so that I wouldn’t have such a black cloud over me all the time. I went to church and to college ministry Bible study. And then went to more church and more Bible studies. Then I prayed some more and just knew that there really did have to be some sin in my life that I wasn’t finding. That had to be the answer. So more time on my knees. All the while, I could barely get to my college classes and slept every spare minute I could find that wasn’t devoted to praying or school. But it didn’t work. Do you know why? It wasn’t a spiritual problem.

So, then I tried eating right, because someone told me that I needed to fix my diet. I didn’t drink alcohol. I only allowed myself a little sugar here and there. I ate fresh fruit and fresh vegetables. I had lots and lots and lots of salads. But that didn’t work, either. Firstly, because I’m not a rabbit. Secondly, because it wasn’t a nutrition problem.

Next came exercise. I was already in pretty good shape (ah, the good old college days when my metabolism actually worked) since I ran, but I picked up my running miles and pace, and started going to the gym. I did feel really good while running, especially out on the trails by myself. It was peaceful and freeing and my endorphin-starved brain soared with the intake, but it was only a temporary fix. Because it wasn’t a fitness problem.

Here is where I insert my disclaimer: all examples of “fixing” are my own story. Maybe you are depressed because your nutrition is horrible. Maybe you really do need to get your body moving and better fitness will be the answer for you. And I would not even begin to presume about your spiritual life. That truly is between you and your God. All of the above mentioned fixes are all good things and do help with depression, but for me, it wasn’t enough.

Hold on to your hats, people, because I’m about to reveal something that might send old Great Auntie Agatha Ophelia straight to her grave, or at least make her turn over in it. For me, it was a brain problem. Shocking, right? When it got to the point that I knew the only reason I was sticking around was so that I could see my family again, I knew I had hit rock bottom. None of the fixes actually fixed me. Thus began my first journey through therapy and medication and it was oh, so hard. I carried with me this stigma from society, from both religious and non-religious folk, clean eaters and junk food enthusiasts, the fittest of the fit and people whose idea of exercise ended with grade school P.E. I was weak and it was shameful. And I bought into that lie wholeheartedly.

So I had to hide. Under the covers until the medicine started to work, and then inside my bubble suit when out in public. Because I just couldn’t let anyone know that I had to be on something to make me not crazy. Being on something wasn’t crazy. Spending so many years of my life hiding was what was crazy. Do you have any idea how much energy that takes? Parties, cookouts, girls’ weekends, reunions, church, work, random run-ins with people I knew: it was exhausting. I spent so much of my limited energy making certain that there were no punctures in my bubble suit, that I couldn’t really enjoy any experience fully. Except for my runs on the trails; those truly were my saving grace. And may sweet Auntie Agatha Ophelia rest in peace, even though she couldn’t fix me. But, to be fair, I did forget to ask Bob’s dog what he thought of it all.