Trigger warning: suicide, mental illness, physical illness — philosophical discussion only, no personal experiences, but not positive or uplifting. IF IN DOUBT DO NOT READ.
Last night I retweeted the following:
When someone dies of cancer, the refrain is “fuck cancer.” But when someone dies of depression, it’s “get help.” Well. Fuck depression.
— Famous Tracy (@tracyvwilson) August 12, 2014
I don’t know what the original tweeter was thinking when writing it, and I don’t mean to put words into that person’s mouth. But I know why I retweeted it, and I want to talk about that.
Whenever suicide or depression strike the public consciousness, my online spaces flood with sympathy and support for those who suffer: Get help, please. Here’s the suicide hotline number. People love you. Depression lies.
In a way, this is good.
But in a way . . .
There’s something that bothers me, really bothers me about this being the predominant public outpouring. Because I start to see — not from any one person, but from the sheer mass of like-minded words — an undercurrent, an undercurrent from society, one that is, for lack of a better word, patronizing. An undercurrent that reads:
If she’d gotten help, she’d still be alive.
If he’d just called that number, it would’ve all been better.
If they’d realized that people loved them.
If they’d remembered that depression lies.
Well, you know what?
Maybe they did get help.
Maybe they did call the number.
Maybe they never doubted that people loved them.
Maybe they did know, know very well, how much depression lies.
And maybe none of it mattered, because fuck depression.
Our need — society’s need — to see people not commit suicide is so much about us, about not wanting to miss them, about the nebulous concept of the value of a human life, rather than about the person themselves. If it weren’t — if it weren’t, we as a society wouldn’t cry, “Don’t do it! People love you!” and then, once they decide to live, celebrate and call it a victory and wash our hands of it all proudly — then turn our backs — tell them the next week or the next month to just snap out of it — call them lazy and weak — tell them to stop being a moocher, a useless husk of a human, a drag, a bad father/mother/sister/husband/child/friend. We’d instead realize that by asking them to live and fight and face the nightmares we’re asking a fucking Herculean thing, and yes, maybe what we’re asking is ultimately a good thing, an excellent thing; maybe there are so many things to live for; maybe in a year they’ll be so stunned and grateful because maybe it’ll get better . . .
But maybe it won’t.
Maybe it won’t ever get better.
And we can’t promise that it will, because fuck depression.
But when we rally against suicide we’re asking people to put hope in the fact that things will improve, and, don’t get me wrong, I think this is a good thing, a proper thing, but so often we ask it without understanding that choosing to live is not easy, it’s not a choice about one moment, it’s looking forward and choosing years of struggle, maybe a forever of struggle, and god, am I glad people do choose that, choose to fight — I need them to and I want them to and I will fight to my last breath telling them not to go the other way — but there’s also something I can’t do, and that is judge. I can’t judge someone for stepping out of misery any more than I can judge someone in horrible chronic pain who decides to choose the where and when. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m not saying it’s okay, it’s about the furthest thing from right and okay that it’s possible to be, but sometimes there’s nothing I can do and there’s nothing anybody can do to make anything better, and what do you say then? There’s nothing.
And you know why? Because fuck depression.
Yes, depression lies, and I like that we know it lies, and I like that we remind each other it lies. But one thing people on the outside have to remember is that sometimes knowing that it lies doesn’t make a goddamn bit of difference. Someone can know everything is irrational, know that they are loved, know without a doubt that without the depression nothing would be all that bad and maybe everything would actually be pretty good, and sometimes despite knowing all this and saying all this and believing all this the depression still laughs in their fucking face and says NO.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck depression.
Depression is often — not always, but often — very treatable. Sometimes it takes a few tries — sometimes meds aren’t right, sometimes the therapist isn’t right, sometimes life keeps kicking you in the face, but lots and lots and lots of people get through depression with treatment, into remission or even cured. And sometimes depression is chronic but can be managed with treatment, and everything does get better, even if it takes a long time and a lot of work. Treatment is the bomb. Treatment saves lives, treatment saves minds, treatment is sometimes hard work and sometimes messy and often a pain in the ass but so, so, so worth it.
I’m going to tell someone with depression to get treatment just like I’ll tell someone with cancer to get treatment. Get thee to a doctor. If that doctor’s incompetent, get thee to a different one. The treatment will be hard and the whole process might suck in every possible way, and we’re really not great at treating either of these things with a whole lot of precision, but goddamn it’s worth it.
But then there’s the cancer patient who’s terminal, who doesn’t want to live her last months in pain and vomiting, and I stop and step back and go somewhere and cry but it’s her choice and fuck cancer, dammit.
I can’t know what’s in your head every day. I can’t know what you’re facing, I can’t know what you’re fighting. I want you to continue being here, and I want to be here with you, and I believe things can and will get better for you because I can’t believe otherwise and still accept living in this world. And get treatment, get all the treatment, know that people love you, know that depression lies. But I also know that no matter what happens, it wasn’t because you didn’t fight hard enough, it wasn’t because you didn’t know I loved you, it wasn’t because you were offered the Magical Binary Choice of living in sparkles and sunshine and rainbows versus suicide and you decided rainbows suck.
God, the world is shitty.
Please live.
Please get better.
Please be well.
Please, a thousand times please do these things that you or I or doctors or anyone may not have the least bit of control over.
FUCK DEPRESSION.
