A few years ago, I made a good friend who suffered from major depression. I longed to help her, but I found myself at a loss, so I mostly listened. And I found it strangely difficult to empathize with her—to really imagine what it would be like to be that hopeless. “Surely life isn’t that bad,” I thought. “There’s got to be something that gives her motivation. She has to have some happiness.”

So I researched, and found this great comic strip that attempted to show what depression was like. The story only became sadder and sadder, darker and darker; and even when the person came out of her depression at the very end, I was in shock. The strip was the saddest, darkest, most horrific thing I had ever read. I couldn’t imagine life being like that.

Now I think I somewhat understand the feeling. And I am no longer baffled at why depressed people want to commit suicide.

I’m not saying I am just as low as that person was, or as my friend was. But I can say I have experienced depression, even if not quite as bad. And I can say I get it.

My Personal Spiral into Depression Land

Motivation to do anything is completely gone. Just zilch; zero. Recently I thought about why I get up in the morning. I realized that I get up because I think certain things need to be done; I think I should do certain things. But there is nothing I really want to do.

If I didn’t feel I should do something, I don’t know if I would do anything at all. And frankly, I wish I was one of those people who just lie in bed all day. It would be a break. But somehow my mind is too stubborn to let that happen—at least for now.

Everything is pointless. My depression now is the result of many complex realizations on my part about what is really important, the meaning of life, and how to live. Suffice it to say that I’ve realized no plan is required for life; I can literally do anything I want. It doesn’t matter. (I mean this in terms of how I spend my time—I can sweep floors, I can become homeless, I can type reports, I can move to a third-world country. It doesn’t matter.)

Because of how I’ve thought my whole life, and because of how my brain works, I immediately thought: If it all doesn’t matter, then nothing matters.

Then nothing matters.

I am well aware this is not actually the case. But I have not yet embraced the freedom; it terrifies me. And I don’t know how long it will take for me to embrace it, to realize the goodness in it.

For some reason that I can’t explain, this thought that nothing matters sent me into a downward spiral. I honestly don’t know how it happened. Suddenly I just didn’t see a point to anything. I mean anything. I know some people will say, “You’re letting your feelings control you.” But honestly, the depression happened so fast I didn’t even know it was my feelings at work. And if I could stop this right now, I would. I really would. I don’t want it.

The Point

But it’s here. So I get up in the morning, and think, “What’s the point?” I have to eat breakfast. What’s the point of eating? I’m hungry.

Okay. But why did I get up when I did? Why do I have to get up at all?

I have to go to my classes. Go to work.

What’s the point of classes? It’s all just theoretical information. I may not even use it again. I don’t care about it; I don’t want to be learning it. Life isn’t about this. And what’s the point of work? Sure, I’m helping people; someone else could be helping them just as well. Yes, God can use me; but He also doesn’t need me. He doesn’t need me at all. Anywhere.

My problem is that I have equated any and all purpose in life with doing—which I realize now is wrong. But this realization is also what threw me into this depression. If the reason for living is based on being, not doing, then I don’t have to do anything.

And again, nothing matters (says my mind).

It is scary as hell (excuse my language). I mean it. I sit around and I think, nothing matters. Nothing. I have nothing to do except the things I have to do; even those things don’t matter. I have nothing to do. And, worse, there is nothing I want to do. Nothing sounds fun. Taking a walk? Mm, yeah, no. Listening to Christmas music? Uh, yeah, reminds me of the past, too sad. No. Listening to other music I like? Nah. Just music. Singing? That’s cool, but I can’t do that all day, and it gets dull. And I’m tired. No. Watching Emergency? For a bit yesterday I actually wanted to do this—then I started watching and I thought, “Huh, yeah, okay. I’m done.” The spark was there and gone.

Calling a friend? Ah, yeah—but I have to pick up the phone, and have to work at making conversation I really don’t want to make, even if I want the companionship. Yeah, the companionship is good. But she’ll want to talk. I don’t want to talk. She’ll ask how I’m doing, and how do I answer that? If I say I’m not good, she’ll want me to elaborate. I don’t want to elaborate; I know I won’t be able to entirely express myself. Plus what’s the point of opening up like that? It never results in anything. Overall it’s too much work.

Yeah, no.

I never understood how depression could zap you of passion for things you like to do. You’re born with a love of certain things; that doesn’t just go away, right?

Wrong. It does. I conjure up an image of horses. I love horses, and still do. Yet I don’t really have a desire to drive out somewhere and go through the motions. Grooming, petting a horse—sure. But it’s just part of what you have to do. Not much fun. Again, what’s the point? You make the horse happy—true. But honestly, it doesn’t sound appealing.

Riding sounds all right, but I’ll have to focus on warming up the horse, doing certain things, I may be alone and I may not know anyone, it may only be one time anyway, and a lesson costs money. And besides, I’ll have to drive somewhere.

My passion for writing—out the window. Possibly this stems from the dual facts that, one, I can hardly focus on any story idea at all; and two, none of the story ideas I come up with sound interesting. At every one, I think, “Yeah, whatever.” These are ideas I previously would have found deep, beautiful and heartwarming.

Now, they just scare me, because they remind me how much I am struggling to focus at all.

Granted, I am focusing while writing this. That is true. But, to be completely honest, this is something I have to do, and my stubborn brain has stayed latched onto those things I have to do even now. I’m writing this because I have to.

Also, it doesn’t feel too bad.

But the lack of focus alarms me. My thoughts on a story won’t come together, and trying to make them is too tiring.

Coping

I cannot entirely explain myself; I know that. I’ve tried verbally; I’m trying on paper. It’s not going to come out in the way I want. But maybe some of the truth can sneak through.

So how have I been dealing with this? Well, the best I can, which is, I can only assume, how every other depressed person deals with his/her depression. Suicidal thoughts have been waging guerrilla warfare in my mind the past week or so. When they leave, I no longer have a desire for death (in fact even in the midst of them I don’t want to die), but I still don’t have much of a desire to live. That’s the real kicker, because by not wanting to die but also not wanting to live, I am stuck in limbo. A limbo of hell.

I can only imagine my friend. Her depression was much worse than mine; much longer-lasting. How did she get up in the morning at all? (Some days, true, she didn’t. But most she did.) How did she survive?

Here is something that has not necessarily helped, but has kept me focused on staying alive:

God wants me to live.

This is probably the main thought that, in those darkest moments, has kept me from taking action. Someone might say, "Think of all those who would miss you." I would say that, too, if I was not depressed. But, in all honesty, when you are seriously considering ways to kick the bucket, that thought does not help much. I can counter that easily: "Sure, they'll miss me, but having to put up with me like this? I don't even want to put up with me like this. Everyone would be better off with me gone; myself included."

But this thought, about God wanting me to live, makes me stop and pause. It may not apply to non-Christians, I understand. But it certainly has helped me. Jesus died that I might have life; God wants all His creatures to live, and has plans to renew them and give them eternal life. Now, for whatever reason, God still wants me to live here on Earth. My life is not mine to take; if He wants me to die, He will kill me off. Until then, I’m stuck here. It’s not the happiest outlook; but it keeps me focused on life, and on what God wants for me.

Anyway, maybe this will strike a chord with somebody. Or maybe, at least, somebody will read this and be able to understand a bit more the day-to-day pain that is depression.