Letters From Us

Dear Depression,

There were days nobody knew you were there.

I answered messages.

I laughed when something was funny.

I showed up for people.

I worked.

I helped.

I asked other people how they were doing and actually meant it.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, you were still there.

That is one of the strangest things about living with you.

People think pain always looks like pain.

They expect the face to match the feeling. They expect depression to announce itself. They expect somebody who is struggling to stop functioning in ways everybody can recognise.

But I got good at carrying you quietly.

Too good.

Sometimes I could be the person making everybody else laugh while privately wondering how I was going to make it through the rest of my own day.

And because I could still do things, sometimes even I questioned whether I was really struggling.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Maybe I'm being dramatic.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Maybe I should be grateful.

I have said all of those things to myself.

But functioning and being okay are not the same thing.

I know that now.

So I am trying to stop measuring my pain by how successfully I can hide it.

And I hope somebody reading this stops measuring theirs that way too.

Shell

Dear Depression,

I know people mean well when they call me strong.

I know it is supposed to be a compliment.

And I know I have survived things that required strength.

But there are days when I don't want another reminder of how much I can carry.

I want somewhere to put it down.

I want to be tired without somebody reminding me that I have survived worse.

I want to say, “Today is hard,” without immediately having to follow it with, “But I'll be fine.”

Sometimes I don't know if I'll be fine.

Sometimes I just know I am here.

And maybe that has to be enough for today.

You have taught me something I wish I had learned another way.

Strength isn't always getting up and conquering the day.

Sometimes strength looks terribly unimpressive.

Sometimes it is answering one message.

Taking the medication.

Eating something.

Changing clothes.

Opening the curtain.

Cancelling something because I genuinely cannot do it.

Telling somebody, “I need you.”

Sometimes it is lying in bed and deciding that today I will stay.

There are versions of strength nobody applauds because nobody sees them.

I know those versions now.

So today I am not asking myself to be inspirational.

I am just asking myself to remain.

Shell

Dear Depression,

There have been periods when the person I missed most was me.

Not some younger, prettier, more successful version of myself.

Just me.

The me who got excited about things.

The me who could start something without having to negotiate with her own brain first.

The me who laughed and actually felt the laugh.

The me who made plans and believed she would have enough energy to keep them.

Sometimes people ask what depression takes from you and expect one big answer.

They don't always understand the small thefts.

Interest.

Concentration.

Energy.

Patience.

Memory.

Desire.

The ability to enjoy something you know you love.

You can still recognise your life while feeling strangely absent from it.

That has frightened me more than once.

But I have also learned not to hold a funeral every time I cannot find myself.

I have disappeared from myself before.

And slowly, sometimes almost imperceptibly, pieces of me have returned.

A joke lands.

A song feels good again.

An idea excites me.

I become curious about tomorrow.

I catch myself sounding like myself.

So when I cannot find her, I try not to assume she is gone.

Sometimes she is exhausted.

Sometimes she is buried under things she has been carrying.

Sometimes she needs more help than she has been getting.

And sometimes she needs time.

I miss myself today.

But I have learned that missing someone means you still remember who they are.

I remember me.

Shell

Dear Depression,

There are years of my life I can look back at now and wonder how I made it through them.

Not because I was fearless.

I wasn't.

Not because I always had hope.

I didn't.

And certainly not because I woke up every morning choosing positivity.

Please.

Some mornings choosing which side of the bed to roll toward was ambitious enough.

I survived some periods one ordinary decision at a time.

One shower.

One meal.

One conversation.

One night.

One more morning.

There were times I could imagine everybody else's future more easily than my own.

And still, somehow, days accumulated.

I am here.

I don't say that triumphantly.

I don't want to turn survival into another thing struggling people are expected to perform beautifully.

There were ugly days.

Angry days.

Numb days.

Days I did very little.

Days I needed help.

Days I wasn't particularly grateful for anything.

They count too.

Maybe especially those.

Because I think sometimes we tell survival stories backwards.

Once we know somebody made it through, we search their past for signs that they always knew they would.

I didn't always know.

Sometimes all I had was the next hour.

So if you are reading this while everybody else seems to be talking about purpose, healing, breakthroughs and becoming the best version of yourself, I want to offer you something smaller.

You don't have to figure out your whole life tonight.

Get through this piece of it.

Then we can talk about the next piece when it comes.

Dear Depression,

You have been part of my story.

But you don't get to tell the whole thing.

Shell