By: Alex Taylor
Updated: Aug. 3, 2023
Originally Published: Aug. 14, 2015
Talking about my struggles with depression feels like stepping into unfamiliar territory. It’s a word I’ve rarely uttered in relation to myself—a term that feels strange to say, almost like it belongs to someone else.
I don’t fit the stereotype of someone who is depressed. Yet, that might be precisely why I feel compelled to share my experience. There are likely many out there who, like me, sense that something is amiss but appear to be managing life just fine on the surface. I always assumed that depression meant lying in bed, consumed by tears, completely unable to engage with the world. But it can manifest in ways that are far more subtle.
You can be battling inner turmoil while still completing daily tasks. You can check off your to-do list, albeit more slowly and with less precision, and no one else may have a clue about the chaos inside. You’re still functioning, but inside, you might feel like an indistinct blob, lost and aimless.
For me, the struggle intensified just before the tragic loss of a beloved comedian. I’ve always had a tendency toward anxiety, but last year, something shifted. Suddenly, my worries amplified. My thoughts raced uncontrollably, dreams became erratic, and even my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Rather than reaching out for help, I retreated inward, hoping the storm would pass as quickly as it had arrived.
That’s when the deceptive thoughts began to creep in. You’ve likely heard the phrase, “Depression lies.” It doesn’t take much for your mind to spiral into a dark place: “I’m a burden.” “No one really likes me.” “I’m unattractive.” “I’m unworthy.” “I’ll never be happy.” Those damaging thoughts clashed with a flicker of awareness inside me—I knew these weren’t true, yet they persisted, leading me to believe that my inner critic was telling the truth.
Eventually, a new lie took hold: “This is how life will always be.” That thought terrified me.
From the outside, I appeared normal. I kept moving through my responsibilities, got out of bed each day, took care of my family, and managed to maintain a semblance of a social life. I paid the bills, albeit sometimes late, and I even managed to smile at those around me. It was all an elaborate performance, a façade that hid the reality of my internal struggle.
There were signs, though—my family might recall when I stopped reaching out as frequently, or friends might recognize the shift in our hangouts. My partner would occasionally express concern, asking if I was okay, while our kids noted, in their innocent way, that I seemed to be in “another world.”
During that time, I found myself fixated on the kitchen knife while preparing meals, captivated by how a single slice could offer a fleeting escape from my pain. But I was aware enough to know that such a release would lead to far worse consequences, leaving me trapped in a sterile room, which I desperately wanted to avoid.
I’ve never contemplated taking my life, nor have I spent days in bed or turned to medication. For a long time, I believed I couldn’t claim the label of depression because I didn’t exhibit the typical signs. Not knowing how to articulate what I was feeling only deepened my sense of confusion.
Even though I haven’t thought about ending my life, I can understand how someone might reach that point—especially when grappling with the hopeless thought that “life will always be like this.”
Recently, a friend mentioned her depression in an online group, and the outpouring of support she received was eye-opening. It made me realize that I too had been ignoring my own struggles. A few months ago, I took a leap of faith and admitted, “I have forgotten how to feel happy.” To my surprise, a fellow group member urged me to seek help immediately. It took me some time and several conversations before I finally sought professional guidance. I’m still in the early stages of understanding my anxiety, triggers, and the underlying issues, but I can say I feel hopeful again—a feeling that is nothing short of miraculous. Working with a therapist has been transformative, and I’m making strides forward. Yet, even as I share this, I grapple with feelings of impostor syndrome, as if I am somehow fabricating my experience.
This brings me back to the falsehoods of depression—my heart was shaken by the loss of a talented comedian because I truly understand how someone can sink into the belief that life will never improve, leading them to consider ending their suffering. But that’s a lie. If you see yourself in my words, know that those negative thoughts are fabrications. Just like I did, reach out for help. Life does not have to remain this way. There is support, there is hope, but you must be brave enough to ask for it.
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In summary, my journey through depression has taught me that it can be deceptive in its appearance and nature. It’s crucial to recognize that you are not alone and that seeking help is not just a sign of weakness but a courageous step toward healing.