This was today’s journal entry. I normally keep those very private, but this one, in the wake of Robin Williams’ recent suicide, seemed like something useful, so here it is, for better or worse. 

Be well, Travel Wisely, 

Tom 

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I was in Washington DC a few days ago and the headset to my phone died, so I made a trip to Best Buy to pick up a new one. When you travel like I do, a headset is a must.

The clerk was a young man from India. There was something wrong with one hand, a handicap of some sort that left the hand still and useless, but he deftly ran the register and bagged my earbuds. Noticing I was from Vermont, he told me of a summer he had spent here, and how much he loved it, how he hope to go back. It was a slow morning and we talked for about twenty minutes, our conversation running from Vermont to travel in general to local restaurants and jazz.

He was active the whole time we talked, cleaning up the register area, putting things in order, always productive even in the midst of our conversation. At one point he fumbled something slightly with his still hand, and he never skipped a beat, catching the item with his good hand. “It is trouble sometimes.” he said ” This hand.”

“You do remarkably well.” I said.

He smiled. “Thank you for noticing. It is hard work having a still hand. People don’t see that.”

I have thought about that conversation. over the past few days, as the news has unfolded about Robin Williams. There has been a great deal of talk about his struggles with depression and substance abuse over the years. And then the latest revelation of his early onset of Parkensons. If anything good has come out of the tragedy of his death, it has been the depth of discussion on depression, it’s causes and how pervasive it is.

My conversation with the young clerk at Best Buy has had me thinking about an aspect of Depression that I have not heard much about however. One that deserves understanding.

Depression is hard work.

I was diagnosed with Depression as I was going through a divorce nearly a decade ago. Sometimes depression is situational and goes away as the situation gets better. I had experienced that situational depression twenty years ago during a long, slow recovery from viral pneumonia. As my health came back, my depression healed as well.

But the Depression that came a decade ago moved in to stay. It has never left me. At times it’s a little better. At times it’s a little worse. But it is never gone.

I function fine. I get my work done. I manage to write and preach and paint. My house is kept up. The bills get paid and the grass gets cut. I go to movies and galleries and savor good meals and good company.

But it’s work. Everything about life is work. And it’s hard.

Getting out of bed in the morning is work. Everything in my body and mind just wants to stay there all day. Simple things like calling the DMV and washing the dishes take a serious act of will to begin. I can remember before the depression. These things were not work. You just did them automatically. There was no effort of will to do them.

These days, and for the last decade or so, it’s been like pushing a huge boulder up hill to do everything. In regular life, there were times I had to push the boulder up hill and times it rolled down hill on it’s own. Inertia took over at a certain point and things became easier But with depression there is no inertia.  Everything you do is pushing up hill. Even staying still has the weight of that boulder threatening to roll back over you.

I am far more disciplined than I used to be. I take medication regularly and monitor my moods so I am taking the right amount (more or less) as my body needs. I have a counselor who keeps me on track. I used to be far more spontaneous in my schedule, but these days I keep to a regular schedule which helps. I go to bed at a regular time most nights, which helps.

But still, it’s work. Every. Single. Thing, is work, a lot of work. Like the young clerk, I work hard to make it seem effortless. But of course, that’s more work

Every now and then, I surrender. When I have a a day with no responsibilities, I don’t get up. This is not the normal lazy morning, but a surrender to a mind that lies to me in its depression, that tells me I can’t do this. And I just surrender. It’s not really good to do this, except for one thing.

It’s a day of rest. A day of not fighting this disease and it’s insidious lies of what you can and can not do.

And then I begin again.

I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want people to feel any more sorry for me than if I had any other chronic sickness. Truly, I am glad I CAN fight it. For some people the Depression is so bad that they can’t fight it.The Depression wins again and again. But for me, at the end of a productive day, when I am savoring a bit of cheese, or a piece of fresh bread, or a small glass of wine, there is a huge sense of victory that I did not have before the depression.

I have fought the beast today And I won.

We all know people who fight Depression. I see statistics like one out of ten pretty regularly, so that’s likely about right. Some of them we are aware of and some we don’t see it. They work hard, harder than you know, to just function. They are not weak, as society sometimes portrays them, but far stronger than they should have to be. And often far more tired. They fight each day to function, to claim the joys in their life. And often, we hide it so well, like the young clerk, that no one notices.

But if you do? It’s OK to acknowledge it. The young clerk’s face lit up. He had been seen. As a person, whole and victorious, his work and victory acknowledged and seen. When we are seen, not just the depression, but the life we’ve battled to claim, it gives us a sense of our own victory to know others see our battle and that we have done well.

Off my soapbox. Time to get back to work.