Sylvia. She was right.
The bell jar is always there. Always hovering o’erhead with its poison acid air, its weight always threatening to descend. You never know when it’s going to slam down and smother your senses with its sour vapor. When it closes upon you, everything takes on a new existence. Everything becomes distorted. Madness does not obey reason; madness has a life of its own. Reason is only the damage control, sometimes the safety net for disaster.
For several years I have been treated for depression. When I first visited a counselor, it was determined that throughout my pubescent and adult life I have operated on a lower mood level than what is considered “normal.” Hormones and chemicals have been the culprit of my experiencing what is called “clinical depression.”
Depression. It is part of me like blood and bone marrow. It cannot be extracted. It will not diminish with medication. It’s the one part of my personality that is consistent. I continue the pills because they take the edge off; they make life more livable. But I’ve stopped trying to make the depression go away, because it won’t.
It’s frightening, not knowing from one moment to the next which direction my mood will turn. Some mornings I wake up furious for no reason, and the whole day is spent trying to hide the foul mood from everyone I encounter. I really do want to be a nice person, and I would like to be considered as such, but being nice is quite a difficulty when adrenaline is raging and I could chew the door-frame away from the wall like Donald Duck in a fury.
Some days I carry the weight of the world. The tension gathers in my chest, a large rock sits in my throat and I can’t quite swallow it down. My veins run thick with lead and any movement requires concerted effort. My body is cumbersome on these days, my motor skills numb. Before I was introduced to the wonders of medicine, I would cry at the smallest provocation. I’m not talking about getting a little tearful at a sensitive subject, I’m talking about boo-hooing uncontrollably at the slightest tug on my emotions.
Once in a while the emptiness creeps back inside my soul. When this happens, I feel like an audience to the things I know — I am no longer a participant, but an outsider looking in. I withdraw from interacting with people when I feel empty. I don’t want to be seen, talked to, or thought about. I want to disappear into oblivion and not even be a memory.
The attributes described here are not the only symptoms of depression; these are only a few of the many facets of the illness. During the struggles with depression I know, for myself, that better days will come again. The wounds of depression will be re-opened from time to time, but my personal journey with depression is one that is livable, and even very happy when the bell jar is high enough.
