Ezinne,

Thank you for your acute portrayal of the disease of depression. I’ve had major clinical depression all my life, diagnosed after a suicide attempt at 18, and re-diagnosed many times. If you have dealt with this syndrome as well, you know how useless psychiatrists are, except for having the credentials to prescribe drugs that turn you into a zombie (as they did when I was 18) or into an anti-depression pill addict with, as was recently discovered with SSRIs, brain damage (as they did when I was in my fifties).

Psychotherapists weren’t much better except they kept me from trying it again, except for two more times when they (or I?) failed. I stopped psychotherapy for the first time in a gazillion years almost a year ago because, although my therapist was very kind in giving me a reduced rate due to financial events beyond my control (“clerical error” on the part of a government agency; it took 11 months to straighten out and still isn’t quite straight), I couldn’t afford it anymore. I took the risk and said I was going to take a break.

Lo and behold, I’m still here. Sometimes I miss the support, as I’m not big on reaching out for it through other channels. Most of the time, I don’t. Sometimes, I just find a way to “numb out,” whether through writing, hours of animal videos on Facebook, or playing pool.

Some people say I am here because I still have something to offer. Sometimes I believe that, too. Most of the time, I doubt it. But I did contribute what I believe are two healthy, mentally sound (I hope!), wonderful human beings to the planet. If that’s all I was good for, I’m satisfied with that.

As far as living with this disease, it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon (she says wryly, after enduring it for 50+ years). My earliest memory of it is from an evening when I was about four years old and felt excluded from my family, an outcast, unwanted, unloved, superfluous.

My most recent memory of it is from tonight, when I had to make the choice whether to take a good friend’s turn-down of an all-expense-paid trip as a rejection of me or an objectively truthful explanation of an awkward situation she was in. The temptation to take it personally is so strong, such an ingrown habit. I’m still struggling with it as I write this.

I identify with your moment at in line at the airport. One minute you’re fine, the next minute the cloud is back. Damn! Why now? Why ever? Once, the cloud stayed for four straight months. Four months when I had to be coerced to get out of bed once a week to shower. It wasn’t that I was a slob; I just didn’t see the point.

But cancer put a different light on suicide. Since going through that, I’m a bit less existential about it, a bit more willing to fight. I don’t recommend it as a cure for depression, but it does seem to have made a bit of a difference in my attitude about throwing in the towel. Having gone through so much to try to save my life, I’m a little less casual about dispensing with it now.

Thank you for a thoughtful, provocative piece.

By the way, I read your tag line: “Juggling wordsmith. I have a lot to say, so bear with me.” I wish such clever, apt lines occasionally occurred to me, but all I can do is applaud in admiration and envy. Hope you stick around and continue to write for a while. Selfishly, I want to enjoy the words you choose to juggle.