By Natasha Baer
Depression is a temporary death. There are times when you certainly feel like you are death warmed up – the heating method was three minutes in the microwave – no seasoning, no flame, just dried out, spun and rotated, breast meat.
I spoke to my Godfather, who is 90. He recently had a stroke and is now presenting cumulative risks for recurrent strokes. He’s a vicar and a fantastic example of what I believe a Christian should be: loving, very modern with his inclusiveness, but knows the bible inside out and is wise and generous with his teachings. He told me that what he was struggling with wasn’t knowing that he was dying but coping with the loss of things he used to be able to do. He wouldn’t be able to go to France this summer for a family holiday, he can’t read books without forgetting what happened at the start, these were the examples he gave me. His son interrupted by saying, "But, Dad you are able to travel, you travelled this year. And you can still read.” But I know there’s a difference between the things you are only physically capable of and the things you feel capable of.
With my depression, in the dark days I had a loss of things I could do. Of what few plans I did have, I cancelled them so I had nothing in my schedule. I couldn’t bear the lead up to having to do something. Meet Jane at Bunnings? That would require driving, which would require being alert, and looking up the journey in Maps, and putting on clothes, and walking around the shop, and writing a list of what to get, and brushing my teeth, and deodorant. And because I couldn’t manage to do a single one of those things presently, how would I manage to do it later? No, it would have to be cancelled altogether. I could not be accountable to be anywhere other than inside my room or doing anything that wasn’t resting. I was unable to get pleasure from reading books, making art or watching TV. Even though physically my legs could move and my eyes could see and my ears; hear. I didn’t feel up to doing anything.
I got bored of my own depression. It was bleak. Unhygienic, lazy, stuck. I was a woman rotting. I was aware of how weeks of Australian Spring time were passing me by, the sunlight coming and going, peeking through the sides of my blackout curtains. Later, I would go on to learn that Robert Sapolski in his 2010 talk at Stanford University defined major depression as, “A biochemical disorder with a genetic component in early experiences influences where somebody can’t appreciate sunsets.” In a life where I have tried to watch a sunrise and a sunset in every country I’ve visited, in my depression cave, I couldn’t tell you if it was seven in the morning or seven in the evening because it didn’t matter, I was consumed with how I felt.
I then got frustrated, frustrated at my own depression for holding me back. I wanted to work, my savings were hit by a truck this year. I wanted to run errands, but how would I do any of that when I couldn’t even eat? When I hadn’t washed myself. When I couldn’t even look after myself.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the sadness. The sadness overwhelmed me as I realised that I am an unwell woman. It’s not a label I’m used to wearing; unwell woman. In my past my health has never held me back before, my body has always been able to carry me through any adventure or challenge. But now, my new label was a paradigm shift away from a free, spirited life, towards a timid, cautious life, as I measure each action against my capacity to feel capable.
I sat crossed-legged on top of my bed and I cried as I whispered “I am an unwell woman.” My life as it was was dead. I was waiting impatiently for a rebirth, that could only come by accepting that I had to lie still for longer.
If you are suffering or know someone who is suffering, help is available.
If you, or someone you know is in immediate danger, please call 000, visit your nearest hospital emergency department, or use any of these crisis helplines: