49 everything was a craving–an urge–a vacancy. But I didn’t believe I could do anything about it. When I tried to care for myself, relief never came. No need I tried to attend to was the need I so desperately wanted met. Soon, I was looking for anything that would work as a happy pill. Anything that could relieve the unscratchable itch. On the worst days, I turned to cutting my arms. Of course it was physically painful–but pain was something that wasn’t that empty, restless feeling. That, in and of itself, made it a pleasure. But even self-harm lost its novelty over time. My only real relief was in sleeping. Eventually, I decided that the only way out of the horrible emptiness was to sleep forever. I wanted to die. *** I don’t talk about my depression very much. It makes people uncomfortable. On the rare occasions I do open up, my friends–knowing I love to write and paint–often mention famous creators who also suffered from depressive disorders. Sylvia Plath, they remind me, turned her depression into beautiful, haunting poetry. Vincent van Gogh turned his into sunflowers and starry nights. I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking whether they are more famous for their works or for their suicides. I think my friends mean well when they say things like this. They mean to be inspiring. From their perspective, depression is merely an artistic form of sadness. They may even consider it to be a gift, or an untapped source of inspiration that could make something beautiful if I only looked at it the right way. To them, creation should be my happy pill. I just need to figure out the right way to express my pain. But depression has never given me inspiration to write. It has only ever taken my desire to create away. There is nothing remotely inspiring about lying on piles of filthy laundry, staring up at a burned-out lightbulb you should have replaced months ago. Nothing is beautiful about stinking with week-old sweat and sebum because you can’t muster the strength to shower. How can you pick up a pen to write if it’s been days since you’ve last been able to pick up a fork to eat? How can you create anything if you’re completely empty? *** Most people treated for depression recover. I am one of the lucky fewwho have “recurrent” tacked onto the
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