Sometimes it hits me like a tidal wave. Most times it’s gradual, like a slow rising tide.
It starts with a warm layer lapping at my ankles — the inviting kind you relish when the sun is hot and there’s only a light coastal breeze. I know the water is there, with gentle ripples tickling my ankles, and I welcome it like an old companion whose friendship is comfortable and familiar. My skin wrinkles and prunes a little from standing here so long, just like it does in too-long showers, but I don’t mind the ugliness of it, the way it makes my feet look deformed and ragged; in a way, it’s charming. If it were up to me, I’d choose this forever, looking out at the endless horizon full of unobstructed views and endless possibilities. But I know this can’t last forever. It never does.
As the water rises, I feel the coolness and it gives me goosebumps. I don’t mind because the sun is still warm and I’m adjusting to the rhythm of the waves. The sand swallows my feet, covering me with warmth. The comfort of it all feels so lovely that I don’t realize how I’m rooting myself in this position, ultimately making it harder for me to step away later. But I don’t want to step away right now; the blend of warmth and coolness is still refreshing.
At some point, the water rises well above my knees and the waves start to dampen my clothes as they crash at my hips. I’ve sunken into the sand up to mid-calf and the sun is now intermittently shining, with a steady wind wrapping me in turbulence. The water is cold and I feel a raw chill beginning, the kind that will eventually settle deep in me but is not quite there yet. I don’t remember when it all changed, only that it feels somewhat uncomfortable now. But, for some reason, I still don’t mind the discomfort. In fact, I enjoy it, thinking partly that I’ve made it this far and, perhaps, the tide will get better rather than worse if I wait it out. In some far reaches of my brain, I believe I deserve this discomfort and whatever comes next because I’ve been watching the tide rise and the sun recede for so long that I should have predicted this outcome. Whatever the reason, I continue to stand in place.
Eventually, as you might have predicted, the water rises to my chest and the crashing waves are constant and relentless. A mist settles along the coast, so heavy that I wouldn’t be able to see my feet, though I couldn’t anyway because they have sunk deep into the sand. The water’s heaviness and pressure impedes my breathing and I’m frigid and shaking. During these times, the sun escapes cloud cover for brief moments that fill me with so much warmth that I forget where I am and how I felt just moments before. It never lasts long though. I’m simultaneously knocked around in the chaos of the sea and also stuck standing still with an inability to free my legs from the sand. I feel very alone. What strikes me is how terrible this feels and yet I allowed this to happen. I wonder silently how it got to this point, how I didn’t predict the rising tide would eventually wash me away.
The truth is I’m not really talking about the ocean at all. I’m talking about Depression. But you already knew that, didn’t you.
Sometimes, my depression hits me all at once with a force that knocks me off my feet and drags me underwater, disoriented and out of control. You could be on shore shouting my name, tossing me life preservers and it wouldn’t matter. I am lost to the sea, swallowed up by my emotions and a sense of complete loss of control. It’s one of those things that happens all at once. These episodes don’t last particularly long because I have developed a quiver of tools, each sharpened for this kind of situation. One of those tools is my voice — I have a fantastic network of people that are willing to listen to me as I open up about my struggle.
Most times, though, my depression sneaks up on me so slowly that I can convince myself I didn’t notice it happening. The low level, constant state of depression I experience everyday is familiar to me in a way that’s almost comfortable. While strange to admit, my depression is always present but I can’t (and, if I’m honest, don’t want to) escape it, because it makes me who I am. A not insignificant part of my success as an engineer and cyclist is attributable to my depression. When the “sun is warm”, it’s easier to ignore for short periods of time and convince myself I’ve escaped.
Living with a constant hum of depression is part of my routine, but the comfort of routine can be dangerous. One day I’m enjoying the warm coastal breeze and then before I know it, I’m swallowed by the swell.
In these cases, I try, with minimal success, to conjure the tools that help me in my darkest times when I’m hit hard and fast, but they don’t often work, for one simple reason: shame. My shame serves as a forcefield, invalidating everything I know to be useful. I’m ashamed because I knew it was happening. I watched the rising tide engulf me and didn’t do anything about it. Somehow, this feels shameful. I feel unworthy of reaching out to my network of friends and family, and ashamed to admit that it isn’t any one thing that caused me to feel this way, just a cumulative build over time. Finding the words to talk about it with anyone seems useless and unfair because I knew it was there and, for a while, I took comfort in it.
I know this is a bunch of nonsense and is irrational thinking. But depression does that to me sometimes; it distorts my perception of worthiness and rationality. The good news is: I’m working on it.
When I’m feeling low, I find it helps for me to read other people’s accounts of mental health experiences. I’m intrigued by the words others choose to express something that can’t often be fully described with words. Reading about other people’s experiences with depression makes me feel bonded to that person, like I’m allowing them to be seen, and it gives me a vocabulary to speak my own truth. On occasion, I will read someone’s account of depression and think “Ah ha! This person gets it!” and all at once, I feel I’m not alone.
Perhaps this will do the same for you. Perhaps you will find this as useful to read as it was for me to write.
I hope, dear reader, you’ll notice the rising tide. Moreover, I hope you do something about it.
If you do find your feet stuck with the tide rising, know that you might be standing in the sand right next to me, even if we can’t see each other through the mist.
There is no shame in asking for help. Sometimes it is easier to talk about your experiences with strangers than it is to talk with someone you know dearly. Help is ALWAYS available, without judgement. 24/7, free, and confidential. You are not alone.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-8255