An Ode to My Depression

Oh, my dear depression, you sly, invisible beast, always lurking in the shadows, never quite projecting the image to match the glamorous despair they show in the movies.

You, my constant companion, defy the stereotypes and refuse to be pinned down by the world’s narrow view of what it means to suffer.

You are my weird little enigma. And you are so very like me, so very changeable and fluctuating and generally nonconformist, in your refusing to fit into society’s neat little boxes. But, ah, such is wise, for coffins are neat little boxes, aren’t they, and we must ever toil the toil of the trauma-laden, if we endeavor to keep our minds and our bodies out of those.

And so together, my dear sweet depression, night after night, we ghost our way through the shadows of insomniac memories and emerge blinking like moles, struck momentarily blind by the harsh light of day. And then, sometimes, we carry on with the oh-so-important business of donning our polite social masks, and dancing the dance of The Normal Day.

Because for us, depression doesn’t always look like endless days spent in bed, surrounded by tissues and the remnants of a Netflix binge.

No, no. That’s too conspicuous, after all, too easily spotted by the untrained eye.

For us, depression, in its infinite wisdom, often prefers the subtlety of the well-curated mask, one that whispers, “I’m fine,” with just the right inflection.

However, let us not stir confusion. There are, to be certain, a lot of the Very Bad Days as well — the days when anger and anxiety and despair come calling, and the five of us have a nice chat and light a bonfire together in the darkness, burning the masks, wetting our faces in a river of saline and mucus, and pouring out the intensity and depths of our sentiments on ragged, shame-laden breaths.

But The Normal Days are far more insidious, because it is then that we somehow, some way, find the impetus within us to make the ultimate magic trick happen — to blend in, to “pass,” to adopt not only that ideal expression of ennui that allows us to merge seamlessly into a crowd of faces, but also, amazingly, an empty, depth-less smile. Ta-da! And the crowd goes wild.

Hmm? How do we manage to pull off this awe-inspiring magic trick, you ask? Ah, let us count the ways!

Because oh depression, my dear, dear, depression… for a woman who dances with you, life can be an intricate ballet of appearances indeed. Mornings may start not with a tragic inability to rise but with a meticulous application of concealer — not just for the dark circles but for the heaviness that clings to the soul. The daily outfit is chosen not for style but for its ability to shield the world from seeing too much, to keep the cracks in her armor just out of sight.

Breakfast, the most important meal of the day, is often a cocktail of medication, swallowed down with the lukewarm coffee that promises to push her through another round of pretending. The world sees a woman who has it all (or at least mostly) together, who moves through her tasks with ease (or at least a modicum of decorum), never guessing that each step is a calculated move in a game of chess she’s been playing against her own mind.

Indeed, the Normal Day becomes a stage for a performance worthy of an Oscar, where every laugh is a bit too loud and every smile is stretched a bit too tight. “How are you?” they ask, and “I’m good,” she lies, with a grace that belies the effort behind the words.

But appointments, meetings, and support groups, with their crowded seats and hot press of bodies, push insistently at the carefully constructed walls of her social anxiety bubble, and become battlegrounds where she fights to keep her focus, her thoughts like soldiers deserting their posts, leaving her to fend off the encroaching fog alone.

Social outings, on those very off-chance occasions that she is, magically, somehow able to force herself to attend, become the most elaborate of masquerades, where she is both the master of ceremonies and the puppet, dancing on strings of obligation. Here, she may even, unbelievably, become the life of the party for a moment or two, her laughter ringing out, a sound so convincing it almost fools her too. But the mirror knows the truth, reflecting back the fatigue that makeup can’t hide, the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

And then, always, the quiet return to solitude, where the mask can finally be pulled free and set aside, and the exhaustion of the day’s pretenses weighs heavy, pressing her down. Here in the silence, depression wraps around her like a familiar blanket, its presence both a burden and a comfort.

Yet despite the challenges, she carries on each day, continuing the cycle, a testament to the strength that goes unrecognized by those who can’t see beyond the surface. If she dares to speak of her struggles, they tell her to “just be happy,” as if happiness is a choice that’s been overlooked, a simple matter of willpower. They don’t understand that if it were that easy, the battle would have been won long ago.

So she goes on, misunderstood by those around her, her struggles invisible to the untrained eye. But she knows the truth of her resilience, the courage it takes to face each day with a heart that feels too much and a mind that won’t quiet. And in that knowledge, there is a quiet dignity, a silent victory against the unseen foe.

Does that answer your question? Is it a good and worthy magic trick, do you think?

Oh depression, my cold unwelcome guest, you may never be fully understood by those who haven’t felt the sharp numbness of your frigid embrace.

But in this ode, I acknowledge you, not as a sign of defeat, but as a declaration of my enduring strength.

For even in your shadow, I continue, at least some days, to live, to laugh, and to love, defiant in the face of your persistent darkness.

Weirdifully yours,
I. M. McWeirdiful