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Feb. 17th, 2015 11:24 pmDuring my first semester at college, one night, I got a call from home saying that one of my childhood friends had been hit by a train and died.
That phone call was shocking for two reasons. One, because it was the first time someone whom I used to be close to, who was only a few months younger than me, had died, and when you're a teenager you think you understand death, you think you know what it means and how awful it is, but you don't, really. When you're a teenager, you think you'll live forever, that you've got decades of time stretched out in front of you, so the thought that you can die—that everything can end in an instant—is honestly shocking.
The second reason was because of the cause of her death. I mean, who dies by accidentally being hit by a train these days? Cars, yes, sadly that happens all the time. But a train? You can see and hear a train coming from a mile away, and anyone seeing a train coming toward them isn't going to attempt to cross until it's past.
It baffled me. It baffled everyone. When I was talking about this with my parents, occasionally they raised the possibility that it wasn't accidental. Maybe it was suicide, they said. Because it's just so unthinkable that a fully cognizant teenager could be accidentally hit by a train.
That couldn't be the answer, I said at the time. According to her parents and friends, she was happy. There was no sign she was depressed.
*
Last year, I learned that three high school student suicides had happened in my hometown. I was sad to hear about them—and a bit surprised, as well. In my 10 years living there, I'd never heard of a single suicide, and suddenly three happened within months of each other. I read a news article, talking about one of the suicides and how sudden and unexpected it was. No one suspected the student would kill himself.
*
If depression were visible on people's faces, fewer people would probably take their own lives. Others—family, friends—would realize something was wrong, and (hopefully) seek help.
But depression is not a binary state. Something that's hard for many people to understand is that you can still seem functional even with depression. You can still show up to class or work, talk to people, even smile or laugh. But that doesn't mean you aren't depressed.
The nature of depression is to hide. There are many reasons for it—societal stigma; personal feelings of shame. To borrow someone else's phrase: Depression is humiliating. And the worse it gets, the more shame you feel. About not being able to "snap out" of it; not being able to do normal, daily things that everyone can do; not being able to meet important deadlines; not being able to feel better even if you have people who love and support you.
So you don't show it. You feel like you can't show it. You pretend you're functional, you're normal. Not just because you're afraid people will judge you for being weak and pathetic and lazy, but also because you're terrified to let people know that something is wrong with you, something that you don't know how to fix. You start to view yourself as some horrific monster with an all-consuming darkness inside, and you're terrified to let other people see that monstrous darkness. This is the "real" you, you think, and if others knew, they would hate you and walk away.
Better to hide. Not that it's all that hard. The vast majority of people are not going to pay attention to you, and sometimes even your friends and family members won't notice. Not everyone is that sensitive. Besides, why bother them? Everyone else has busy lives. They don't have time to help keep the pieces of yourself together when you feel like you're about to fall apart. And they shouldn't have to bear that burden. They shouldn't have to stare at that yawning abyss inside you. Wanting them to do otherwise would be selfish.
Depression is a paradox. It is desperately wanting someone to help you, and at the same time pushing people away. It is a silent cry for help, but at the same time knowing no one else can help you. No matter how much they love you, they can’t help you. No one can rescue you from that constant feeling of drowning, like you can barely keep your head above water, and there’s a current dragging you down, and your limbs are aching from the effort of trying to stay alive.
That's the tragedy of depression: how easy it is to hide.
And the hardest thing is to stop hiding. To show someone that writhing abyss inside you, with all the fear and the shame and the self-loathing.
The hardest thing is find the courage to tell someone, "I'm not okay."
That phone call was shocking for two reasons. One, because it was the first time someone whom I used to be close to, who was only a few months younger than me, had died, and when you're a teenager you think you understand death, you think you know what it means and how awful it is, but you don't, really. When you're a teenager, you think you'll live forever, that you've got decades of time stretched out in front of you, so the thought that you can die—that everything can end in an instant—is honestly shocking.
The second reason was because of the cause of her death. I mean, who dies by accidentally being hit by a train these days? Cars, yes, sadly that happens all the time. But a train? You can see and hear a train coming from a mile away, and anyone seeing a train coming toward them isn't going to attempt to cross until it's past.
It baffled me. It baffled everyone. When I was talking about this with my parents, occasionally they raised the possibility that it wasn't accidental. Maybe it was suicide, they said. Because it's just so unthinkable that a fully cognizant teenager could be accidentally hit by a train.
That couldn't be the answer, I said at the time. According to her parents and friends, she was happy. There was no sign she was depressed.
*
Last year, I learned that three high school student suicides had happened in my hometown. I was sad to hear about them—and a bit surprised, as well. In my 10 years living there, I'd never heard of a single suicide, and suddenly three happened within months of each other. I read a news article, talking about one of the suicides and how sudden and unexpected it was. No one suspected the student would kill himself.
*
If depression were visible on people's faces, fewer people would probably take their own lives. Others—family, friends—would realize something was wrong, and (hopefully) seek help.
But depression is not a binary state. Something that's hard for many people to understand is that you can still seem functional even with depression. You can still show up to class or work, talk to people, even smile or laugh. But that doesn't mean you aren't depressed.
The nature of depression is to hide. There are many reasons for it—societal stigma; personal feelings of shame. To borrow someone else's phrase: Depression is humiliating. And the worse it gets, the more shame you feel. About not being able to "snap out" of it; not being able to do normal, daily things that everyone can do; not being able to meet important deadlines; not being able to feel better even if you have people who love and support you.
So you don't show it. You feel like you can't show it. You pretend you're functional, you're normal. Not just because you're afraid people will judge you for being weak and pathetic and lazy, but also because you're terrified to let people know that something is wrong with you, something that you don't know how to fix. You start to view yourself as some horrific monster with an all-consuming darkness inside, and you're terrified to let other people see that monstrous darkness. This is the "real" you, you think, and if others knew, they would hate you and walk away.
Better to hide. Not that it's all that hard. The vast majority of people are not going to pay attention to you, and sometimes even your friends and family members won't notice. Not everyone is that sensitive. Besides, why bother them? Everyone else has busy lives. They don't have time to help keep the pieces of yourself together when you feel like you're about to fall apart. And they shouldn't have to bear that burden. They shouldn't have to stare at that yawning abyss inside you. Wanting them to do otherwise would be selfish.
Depression is a paradox. It is desperately wanting someone to help you, and at the same time pushing people away. It is a silent cry for help, but at the same time knowing no one else can help you. No matter how much they love you, they can’t help you. No one can rescue you from that constant feeling of drowning, like you can barely keep your head above water, and there’s a current dragging you down, and your limbs are aching from the effort of trying to stay alive.
That's the tragedy of depression: how easy it is to hide.
And the hardest thing is to stop hiding. To show someone that writhing abyss inside you, with all the fear and the shame and the self-loathing.
The hardest thing is find the courage to tell someone, "I'm not okay."
