Depression can be difficult to recognize when it is slowly establishing itself as the dominant functioning constitution of your psyche. It is even harder to combat when your own assessment of what might be the genesis of the pain is your belief that it is predominantly evolving out of your own weaknesses. Just after a school holiday break in the middle of a frigid Texas night, at thirteen years of age I found myself alone in an unfamiliar and barren white room. An observation window and the locked door in which I entered were the only access to the outside world. The warning signs had been there. They filled my mind screaming at me and shifting blame. The constant drone of erosive internal scrutiny effectively breaking down what remained of my spirit.
Isolated and exposed, I laid there feeling just like an animal on display. A solemn nurse clad in white and with closely shorn curly hair stood just the other side of the viewing window peering in as if I should act out in some preconceived manner, maybe run around like the crazy person I apparently was. I had no energy to perform, I was profoundly sad. There was nothing to do, but lie there. Attempting to understand how I arrived at this moment, my memories transversing every corner of my head; I must have made a wrong decision somewhere, how did it all become so painful so quickly? Revealing it was obviously a mistake, allowing this within me to show itself had forced my parent’s hand and now the dissection of my mental state would commence with or without my consent. It ravaged my reality; nothing seemed worth my attention, not even myself.
Most of the days prior were a blur, laden with dead emotion. My mind either running nonstop with frantic thoughts levied by an unrelenting momentum or completely saturated in a silence that was so evident it was deafening. Absolutely, I knew something was wrong and I desired reprieve from it but I couldn’t navigate my own distorted psychological state. I was crazy and recognized that I was crazy, which complicates any normally effective treatment. I had been seeing a psychologist without resolution. I knew what was wrong and having someone tell me what I already knew wouldn’t alleviate the misery.
Our place in this world is defined by our choices, emotions, triumphs, defeats, and all is dependent upon our response to each event. I believe a little bit in destiny, however I also believe we have a marginal control over our fate. Unfortunately, we are but human and can only make decisions based upon the information that is known to us. We fail constantly, we blame everyone else, and we rarely relent in our pursuit of self gratification unless we are halted physically or mentally. I always blame myself, I take full responsibility for every misstep and my punishment is my battered psyche. Sharing my thoughts with even a person paid to listen to them wasn’t something I was prepared to do or remotely even desired to do. It felt more like complaining and a little selfish. I didn’t want to analyze it anymore, I wanted it gone.
Late on that January evening, I endured a constant barrage of demanding questions, “What is wrong with you?” my mother would ask over and over. “Why are you not happy?” she demanded, I mean who could blame her? I wanted to know the answers too and my father just seemed confused as to what was to be done with me. He wasn’t always the most emotionally stable either, frequently struggling with his here and now. His own past was filled with accolades, battlefield triumphs and losses, youthful adventures, and at one time a promise of what his future would hold. He had a difficult time reconciling the years that were gone and what they had done to him physically and emotionally, permeating his soul, scarring him. All of that made him very aware of his own debilitating depression. At this point in his life he had recently retired from the Marine Corps and this exposed a new ramification, insecurity. Following a fulfilling career in the military with suddenly having to start at ground zero can be leveling to an individual’s pride. He persevered because he loved his family, but also because his only other option was to “take a short walk in the woods,” as he facetiously remarked on occasion.
It had finally come to my parents that the possibility a person of my age could be suicidal. Recently a teen in another Texas town had stood in front of his classmates and shot himself. The band Pearl Jam would eventually write a song that detailed it. Down or reticent was most likely how my parents thought of me the prior months. That night they became compulsive in their determination to get answers to my noticeable change, but no matter how hard they prodded the daughter they knew was lost. Even if I wanted to, I myself could not bring her back. Apparently fearful of what my intentions might be they phoned my psychologist. He instructed my parents to bring me to this facility. I was packed up and locked away before the next day had a chance to break. This would be my retribution or my saving grace, either way you look at it…there I was.
I spent the early morning watching the shadows dance on the walls, my spirit was elsewhere depleted and abandoned. My usual fixation on time had dissipated and I gradually drifted off to asleep with only blank space instead of the usual rabid thoughts. I awoke a few hours later to the realization I was still there. As I wrestled with my desire to just lie there indefinitely, the nurse entered. She proceeded to introduce herself with a calming sympathetic voice. Then she walked me down an adjacent corridor to what would be my new sleeping quarters. It resembled a hotel room save for the bars on the window and lack of a television or phone. Sterile, uninviting, it instantly emanated years of past miseries. Definitely not the Hilton, or even the Best Western for that matter. Beige, brown, and mind numbingly boring. You would think they might have attempted to add some uplifting decor. I mean we were already depressed, no need to push us over the edge. If you weren’t already considering suicide this room would probably make you. She began to explain the rules in her consistent motherly tone; “No personal hygiene products in your bathroom. Every morning and every evening a cart will be rolled into the hallway with baskets containing your individual items.” Razors are an obvious reason for this rule and as far as the shampoo goes, well, we may try to drink it… now that would have had to stem from some serious need to escape.
I started my time there just completing the daily schedule as it was laid out for me. Counseling sessions with and without my family were held every day to help assess my ‘suicidal tendencies’, my diagnosis for confinement. I just had no aspiration to participate in any of it. Pretending nothing was wrong and life was not mine to be bothered with seemed a much better option. There were just handful of us in the ward, five other females and one male. The reasons for stay were assorted, abuse, anger, manic depression. We didn’t really make an effort to get to know each other totally; we were all too warped by pain to be interested in forming any friendships.
Being thrown together as we were brought about a forced socialization. We spoke through the air conditioning vents about nothing at all. Anything but what afflicted us individually. Rapping on my door and the squeaky wheels of the cart woke me each morning. I wondered if every awakening would be a flash of realization that I wasn’t home in my own bed. After dragging myself into the hall to gather my basket of essentials and barely preparing for the day, I would walk down to the common room to wait. Once we all collected there, we were then escorted to breakfast, as none of us were allowed to leave the wing alone. After breakfast we had class, which lasted until noon…it was a bit like being in a teen daycare center, only we didn’t get recess. In fact, we weren’t allowed outdoors at all. I always thought the sun was better for depression. I would steal a glance of the trees, the sun, and the outside world with every window I passed. You don’t realize the things you miss until you do. My depression had a common aspect, as much as I longed for death to release me, I also wanted to live and just be happy…I wanted peace. A constant struggle to maintain a healthy or what minimally passed for a normal-like personality was exhausting and nearly impossible. The goal is to be ordinary, to not appear as though my mind was overwrought with these opposing thoughts racing a million miles a minute.
In the daily sessions our psychologist would encourage us to share the genesis of our anger or pain, although mine wasn’t based on any specific incident. Since then I have come to the determination that all the adverse significant events of my life in all probability compounded my already genetically introduced depression, I’ve had plenty of time to work this theory out. This has been more help to me through the years in dealing with my really low points, more than any therapy I have ever been the beneficiary of.
I’m not sure I was always an unhappy person though. As a child I was sarcastic, impetuous, and a fighter. If I wanted to do something, I did it. My childhood was littered with expressive imaginative behavior and lively mischievous episodes. When I was three years old my parents held a Halloween party for the neighborhood kids. As my mother told ghost stories, this little boy sat in front of me with soft blonde curls. They were so appealing since I was blessed with straight blonde hair. He wasn’t as fond of them and I was, so I came up with a plan to get us both what we wanted. I snipped them off one by one and taped them to my head. So proud of my problem solving skills and of course my new tresses, I ran to show my mother. She laughed hysterically; his mother, a hairstylist was not so amused. Around this same time, my father had begun to teach me to how to box. After a rogue left hook by me, he ended up going into work with a black eye and had to explain to bunch of Marines that it was caused by his three year old daughter. I grew into a tomboy, wore Spiderman underoos, kept my blonde hair cut short, amassed a collection of matchbox cars, and told people my name was George.
Frequent military relocations kept everything changing, although I always found my place, quickly assimilating to each new environment and usually defending my older sister in the process. Her disdain for change and the expectation of normality that inhabited the majority of the places we ended up forced her to push boundaries and placed her usually in the fringe of our social spectrum. She was bold but not confidant and periodically dealt with her body image. You are locked into this identity from the moment your life begins. You along with everyone else you encounter are attempting to discover who you are and what your purpose is. On different levels and to various results, however it all ensues at the same time. Making it almost impossible to take a breath and figure yourself out unaffected by those we encounter along our journey. None of us are impervious to the influence of others, we are all altered one way or another.
Still, none of this brought me to the understanding of why I felt this overwhelming sadness in the first place or how to move past it. I began to accept this was who I was now, maybe life was meant to be quick and painful. I knew I should enjoy things, to participate in normal activities, I just had no inclination to do so. Life was moving rapidly with or without my assistance. I could spend days succumbed by my fear of time and desperately clinging to my past and that of those before me, only to have lucid moments where I became conscious of the fact that I had lost more time. A cycle that never ended and only made the anguish more intense and frequent. Or I could simply halt my time and suffering completely.
Gradually I began to realize how much my inner turmoil affected those around me. Depression makes you selfish, not willingly or vainly, but self-consumed nonetheless. You are fighting so hard to not self destruct completely that you lose sight of all those you care about that surround you; it is only magnified by your inability to understand everyone else’s reaction to it. They wanted to save me from myself; only thing is, I didn’t believe I needed saving…just relief. I was hanging over a cliff by a rope held tightly by my family and all I wanted them to do is let go. This developed into a repetitive thought, the only way to surmount this rapidly growing hopelessness was to cease existing.
After weeks of not feeling like I had improved or lessened my despair, I requested to call my father. That late night with desperation filling my voice and curled up on the floor next to the nurse’s station I begged him to come get me and take me home. He replied remorsefully, “Being there was the best option for me”. I could not relent, I was not capable of remaining there any longer. I felt as though I was disappearing. The abrupt absence of familiar surroundings and still being consumed by this unwavering pain only escalated my persistent misery. I began sobbing and pleading with a purpose for him to please get me out. Finally conceding to my wishes, he made the request for the next day that I was to be released to the custody of my parents. This was an action that did not meet the approval of my psychologist or any of the hospital staff. They tried in vain to convince him that it was far too soon and he should reconsider removing me from their care. To which his response was, “You do not want to keep her as bad I as I want to get her out”. I had left him no choice as a loving father. I am certain he felt as helpless as I did, but wanted so badly to placate my immediate torture.
Returning home wasn’t as much of an adjustment as one would think, everything was exactly how I left it just one month prior. My room still perfectly assembled, untouched, my obsession with order and cleanliness was most likely probably all that was keeping me from descending into complete and irreversible madness. My cleanliness and perpetual organization has been my only consistent control in life. My obsessions weren’t just tactile, music allowed me to distance myself from myself. Motown singers, Joplin, Fleetwood Mac, told stories that either liberated me from my depression or justified it. I was decades behind my peers in my interests, my bookshelf was filled with historical biographies, battlefield memoirs, and classic film star pictorials. Maybe I was actually born in the wrong era. It is possible I was meant to be dancing in a field or flowers at peace with my existence and remote from the weight of modernity or God forbid an isolated 1950’s housewife with in all probability the same despondency I felt. Fantasizing about being other people living in different times doesn’t always land on a remarkable or peaceful presence, the daydreams of the dejected are riddled with unpleasant or insignificant realities.
I returned to my classes again and it felt strikingly very similar to every previous relocation I had unceremoniously went through many times before. Yet outwardly at least there was a difference; for one thing I weighed a good 10 to 15 pounds more than before I went into the facility. Upon entering the clinic I was but a gaunt 85 pounds, not from appearance associated anorexia or any body image issue. Mainly, I had just become so wholly uninterested in anything, even taking the time to eat a meal. The clinic staff forced you to eat at every single meal though and with so many controls placed on you, it compels you to adhere. Also, I was very intent not being perceived as abnormal. I mean, damn, back then abnormality wasn’t cool yet. I wore a mask of uniformity, which worked very well; most people if any asked very little about my time away or were afraid to. I was sarcastic and removed, protecting my emotion from being evident. This character kept me from evaluating myself and I carried on with my expected preteen life.
Out-treatment continued with my psychologist. I despised talking about myself and my issues. Some young girls, that’s all they do, talk about themselves. I on the other hand would rather have bathed in a pool of acid. In the end what did it all matter; we are all mistake riddled creatures, we all carry numerous insecurities, faults, and prejudices. We may aspire to be perfect or our version of perfection, but this is a fruitless endeavor. I turned fourteen without even holding onto the memory of it. I became resolute about not wanting to feel and was able to avoid it for a very short time. It rested in my chest just below the surface, the pain and rage. Every evening I would calmly climb the stairs to my room closing my door behind me, sit down on my perfectly made canopy daybed, lie face down on my floral pillow and scream into it. My only way to be free of it. Just for a moment, allowing what had such domination over me to be released. A few short months later my ability to manage the all-consuming blackness within escaped my control.
GYPSY WYND 