Depression is a disease. Like many other diseases, it has a set of symptoms which are fairly consistent. It can be hard to diagnose because we don’t understand the brain very well and symptoms of mental illnesses can overlap and there’s really no way to tell except to talk to you. Once diagnosed, it can be treated with therapy and medication and maybe get better over time.
But there is no cure.
Today has been up and down for me and this is my most recent thought on the subject. You know, among the many other blog post ideas I’ve had involving depression over the last couple days.
While trying to cope with the reality that I have this disease that won’t go away; that I’ll have to deal with for years; that I can barely see past an hour from now and I have no idea how I’m supposed to move YEARS forward, my brain hands me this piece of information. That there is no cure for my disease.
Cut out the cancer and it’s gone. It might grow back, or pop up somewhere else, but it’s gone.
But not for depression.
I can’t excise a piece of flesh to terminate the illness; I can’t be lobotomized with any hope of recovery.
There is no insulin injection to keep it at bay.
I haven’t had a truly “good” day in.. I don’t even know. Weeks? Months? My occasional chattiness or spurts of writing don’t really reflect my brainspace. I hardly ever miss work and I always get out of bed in the morning. I give many appearances of being collected.
But I am so broken. Scattered, like stardust in the sky. The appearance of beauty in the whirling flecks of chemicals and light, with no history to tell you about the life-giving star that once was.
I don’t even know what I’m doing any more.