Taking Inventory

September is Suicide Awareness Month, and September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day.

It’s easy to overlook depression as an invisible illness—mainly because the condition is easy to disguise.

I’ve elected to set aside October for essays on depression (It’s Depression Education and Awareness Month) because I feel September’s position as National Pain Awareness Month deserves more credit. But I wanted to take this week for a touch of recognition.

I feel sad (1)

I’m the greatest actress in the world. The Academies and Boards simply fail to acknowledge my genius. (My lack of registration in their prestigious organizations may have something to do with that) I strut about the world stage disguised behind a comedy mask, and everyone smiles in response. It’s a constant game of pretend that fools everyone around me, from the complete stranger to the closest relation. (Maybe even me)

Pancake makeup to absorb the reddened eyes of weeping. Spirit gum to adhere a permasmile. Glitter to distract from limp and lank hair—the reward of endless hours working at the game.

Carefully crafted laughter of misdirection hides the bitter twist of the heart beneath.

I wouldn’t even need five minutes to deliver my acceptance speech.

As I look back on my life, all I can see are a lot of failures (2)

The average person stands atop their current perch on the accomplishment mountain and admires the view. If they happen to look over their shoulder, they marvel at the height they’ve achieved. The pride’s enough to carry them to the next handhold on their journey.

Not what happens when I turn around.

I see the bridge where my foot broke through a panel. (As if I didn’t know it was rotted in the first place) And the rock slide I STARTED when I felt the urge to scream. Let’s not forget the chasm I tripped into when I got distracted by that shiny object. (Or was it a squirrel?) Nope, the squirrel was when I fell over the downed tree. And the loose shale path. And we should probably forget where I almost drowned in the flash flood. (But we can’t because I’m a strong swimmer and know better) Oh, and that horrifically embarrassing moment when I thought I needed to climb a sheer rock wall despite there being a gentle mountain pass, complete with handrails.

Because I’m a certifiable moron.

I feel guilty all of the time (3)

I was raised Catholic. Baptism is the process of pouring guilt into your body. And you spend the rest of your life trying to rid your brain of the filth.

The longer you spend in that particular organized religion, the harder it is to escape the burden. (One year equals one hundred pounds of guilt)

I blame myself for everything bad that happens (3)

I don’t know who gets more vexed by therapy: me or my therapist. The constant repetition of themes grows tedious. (You’d think he’d realize the utter lack of progress denotes a hopeless case. Sometimes I think he’s a masochist) Only slightly less irritating is his insistence on reminding me that the burdens I insist on shouldering don’t all belong to me.

The heroic role of the martyr isn’t mine, apparently.

People don’t step forward to accept blame. It’s easier to cross their arms, shake their heads, turn their backs. But the world demands a scapegoat. That eternal weight of guilt condemns me to raise my hand, accept the penance.

The habit is ingrained. And my therapist is one man wading through millions of sparking wires, attempting to find the one he hopes may diffuse the bomb.

I expect to be punished (2)

Wrongs are punished.

I am wrong.

Even small children can do that math. (Or they could before some idiot reinvented math)

I have thoughts of killing myself, but I would not carry them out (1)

A cup of apple juice with a chaser of mineral spirits. (Failure)

A handful of Tylenol. (Failure)

A handful of Motrin. (Failure—yet I grumble at the hatred my stomach has for me)

The gas pedal pressed to the floor, cutting the wheel to the right at the approach to the exit ramp. (Never attempted for fear of injuring another vehicle)

I am slightly more irritated now than usual (1)

“Talk to me.” (The universal cry of the disinterested individual during September feigning interest in depression and mental health)

“You can always talk to me, no matter what.” (The standard meme circulated during September, complete with a blue and teal ribbon. Bonus points to those who opt for green ribbons)

“Never hesitate to call me, regardless of what time it is.” (The rallying cry of friends and family—followed by an awkward silence when you take them up on their vows)

“I’m willing to listen to ANYTHING you have to say.” (The virtuous pledge made by anyone touched by suicide—or those who think they are because they follow a particular celebrity who committed suicide)

I have greater difficulty in making decisions than I used to (2)

I stare in envy at people who make choices without a second thought. No need to write out lengthy pro and con lists, compile research, or consult star charts for the potential universal impact. They forge ahead with their decision firm in their mind the moment an opportunity presents itself.

Everything in front of me has the weight of a life-or-death crisis.

Get a banana or a bag of chips with my lunch? The world will end if I don’t choose appropriately! (Actually, depending on how my stomach decides to respond, that’s a real possibility)

Spend the money on a writing course that helps me invest in myself? Is it worth it, or am I wasting funds on a lost cause? I may be better off registering the turnip in the garden; it has more talent than I do.

The pressure on my shoulders to spit out an answer would cripple Superman.

I believe that I look ugly (3)

I don’t look in the mirror.

The person who stares back at me is a stranger. I recognize nothing there. Not her eyes, not her hair, not her face, not her body, not the sardonic twist of her lips. If I passed her on the street, I’d never know her.

The features on my license are nothing more than statistics. I might be able to recite them—under duress.

It takes an extra effort to get started at doing something (1)

Is it procrastination or depression? Or am I lazy? (There’s that guilt complex, right on time) Maybe I simply lack any talent—probably why I don’t have that Oscar yet—which is why I spend hours staring at a blank computer screen.

Blaming myself is always easier than finding a rational explanation for why I can’t find the next word, the next sentence, the next paragraph. The fundamental problem is ME. If I could solve the malfunction lurking within my brain (oh, the irony), then I wouldn’t struggle so much to accomplish my work every day.

I wake up several hours earlier than I used to and cannot get back to sleep (3)

Sleep is for the innocent.

I get tired from doing almost anything (2)

Am I tired because I fail to sleep?

Am I tired because my body hates me?

Am I tired because my brain never turns itself off? (Oh, right—it’s not supposed to)

Am I tired because I can’t find a moment’s peace?

I have no appetite at all anymore (3)

“You should see a psychologist.” Those words from a gastroenterologist destroyed me. I couldn’t drink WATER without nausea, and he dismissed me when I confessed to depression.

One more failure of my body I could chalk up to MY FAULT.

After another year of appointments and testing, a new doctor discovered my GERD was spiraling out of control. The insane acid levels in the stomach were responsible for the symptoms—not the pits of despair in my brain.

But those words have stayed with me, leaving me mired in doubt every time I reach for an antinausea pill or stare at a plate of food in distaste. Where does the blame lie? With a body that doesn’t behave properly? Or with ME?

Always my fault, naturally.

I haven’t lost much weight, if any, lately (3)

I hate the number on the scale as much as I hate the sight of myself in the mirror.

I am so worried about my physical problems that I cannot think of anything else (3)

At any given moment, my brain cycles through a list of issues.

What’s wrong with my stomach? Is there something causing it to reject food? Did something shift in the digestion process? Is that why I can no longer eat bread, chicken, crackers, salad? Can you simply stop digesting? Find yourself with a body that no longer needs nourishment? (Seems counterproductive)

Did I honestly tear my rotator cuff in my SLEEP? A sleeping position I’ve had throughout my entire life? That’s absurd. But how else did I manage to destroy the joint? I haven’t touched my roller skates, and everyone’s enacted an embargo on fun since the pain started. Am I going to have to face surgery?

Why can no one find the reason for that spot of pain in my head—the place that hasn’t moved in 13 years? It never appears on imaging, but it stops me in my tracks when it flares up. I can pinpoint it with flawless accuracy, but everyone shrugs their shoulders. Am I genuinely crazy? (As if I don’t know the answer to that question)

It’s cancer. I know it’s cancer. Of course it is. (The internet told me so)

I hate myself (3)

Sometimes I even fool myself—that’s how astounding my performances are. I convince myself that I’m well-adjusted and thriving. For a few days, I even forget everything I’ve screwed up, mismanaged, and destroyed. I can close my eyes, tilt my head back, and feel the soft touch of the sun on my imperfect face.

And that’s the worst thing of all.

Because I deny the presence of those mistakes and hesitations. I’m singing along to inspirational music I barely understand; memorized lyrics I can’t empathize with.

I champion those around me with words of praise and encouragement—as the same terms and phrases fall on my deaf ears.

I’m a walking contradiction. A jumbled disaster of serotonin fragments.

But damn if I don’t make depression look appealing.

Interpreting the Inventory

1-10: These ups and downs are considered normal

11-16: Mild mood disturbance

17-20: Borderline clinical depression

21-30: Moderate depression31-40: Severe depression

Over 40: Extreme depression

Congratulations, you’re depressed!

Here’s your black clothing (which family and friends will comment on and suggest you replace with “happier” colors), your alternative music (you decide what that looks like for you, but I suggest a mixture of show tunes and heavy metal), and your chocolate.

Go forth and pretend that nothing’s wrong. (Not like anyone will notice anyway)

*Based on the Beck’s Depression Inventory