Portrait of Depression as a Spotted Dog

 

Thoughts on self-image, positive affirmations, and learning to take responsibility 

Today, my therapist officially diagnosed me with depression.

If you're close to me (or even just read my blog posts), your reaction might be some version of "No sh**, Sherlock." And you'd be right— I'm sure it's obvious to anyone who sees me struggle day in and day out.

(Or maybe it's a surprise to you. I don't always know how I come across.)

Yet, this diagnosis is making me feel, well, depressed.

There are a dozen small reasons for this— I feel plagued by the certifiably false idea that having depression means that everything I'm depressed about it is somehow less real or less important; I feel like I don't deserve to carry this label because I know other people whose depression is worse/more debilitating— but the main one is this:

I have always thought of myself as a basically happy person.

I've carried this self-conception since I was a kid: I'm an optimist. I'm happy. I find joy in life. I do things that make me happy. I bring a cheerful disposition to the world. I'm the stable one. I find joy in everything.

Having this kind of self-image is powerful: it has often encouraged me to be cheerful and to have courage, and to embrace my natural ability to find beauty and meaning in the everyday.

But at what point does self-affirmation become a sort of personal gaslighting? 

I am basically happy. This inability to get up from bed is just a temporary setback. It's just the pandemic. It's this person's emotional distress. It's just the suffering in the world. It's just the cold/hot/cloudy/rainy weather. It's just a phase. This can't be depression because I know what depression looks like. This is depression, but it's temporary because I am a basically happy person.

Today I had to look at this view of myself and ask, what if that story about myself isn't true?

What if I'm a depressed person?

And what does that mean for me?

This evening as I knelt in the sunshine (sunshine is supposed to be good for depression) and weeded centipede grass out of my sweet potato bed, I tried to figure out what on earth the first step in accepting this is.

Almost immediately, an image came to mind of depression as a little dog, white with brown spots. (Oddly enough, in my image of my depression, the dog is cheerful, wagging his tail.)

This dog has been trotting at my heels for years, but I've never acknowledged him as mine. I'm not a dog person. I have no pets. What dog? Oh, this dog? He's just following me around, temporarily.

Today I had to look at this spotted metaphorical dog and realize, "Okay, I'm your owner. I'm responsible for you now. I have you."

And then ask, "What do you need?"

Depression before now has always appeared in my mind as a thick gray blanket of clouds, smothering and numbing. Something to fight. Something to battle and struggle again and distract myself from and overcome. But fighting a cloud is useless. Beating the air with my fists can't help anything.

But maybe I can take responsibility for this dog who's been following me around. 

I don't know what the next step is, but the first step was acknowledging that he exists, and he's mine, and he has needs. 

And I'm going to do my best to take care of him.

~~~