Mental illness is not insanity.
What is depression? I can only speak from my own experience, but that experience is very expensive, and very deep.
Clinical Depression is caused by an imbalance of neurotransmitters, but it expresses itself as... a monster. One of Harry Potter's Dementors, who knows you better than you know yourself. A creature of the depths of the mind that only feels and expresses the darkest, most disturbing and disturbed, most evil thoughts.
Many of the things I will say here will, of necessity, be expressed as analogies, because I don't have the language to fully express what happens inside of my mind, or at least to do so in a way that has the emotional impact as well as through analogy. For instance, I will speak of my depression as "my Beast" whispering in my ear, but I am not schizophrenic, and do not actually hear voices - it is a part of me, speaking not in words, but in subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) nudges to my decision making faculties. But my Beast is a creature of emotion more than thought, even when it directly interferes with my thoughts.
I have been suffering from Depression for a very long time, but did not recognize it for what it was until it was too late. I can say that I did not experience it in the way most people would associate with the word 'depression'. It was not just sadness or malaise, or at least not primarily - it was something telling me that I was wrong, that I was bad, that I was undeserving.
My depression feeds on itself. The worse I feel, the stronger it gets, and it is expert at knowing what buttons to push, what switches to flip, what to emphasize and what to hide in shadow. It works through my perceptions, showing me selected highlights (or lowlights), and hiding things that might potentially do me some good. When it has control, there are only bad decisions - I can only choose between bad, worse, and worst. If there is something out there that might be beneficial, it will suggest courses of action guaranteed to derail that improvement. It makes me understand, at some level, why primitive people believe in Demons, inhabiting your soul and taking you over.
Picture, if you will, a Demon - a monster with no real shape or form, who lives in the inner recesses of your mind. It knows everything you do, and knows everything you know, and its sole function is to drain every chance of happiness from your life. It has complete access to your memories, your drives, your soul, and your volition, and it constantly whispers in your ears, telling you not just what to do (though it does offer a lot of suggestions), but how to do it, and that it really doesn't matter either way, because you don't deserve a good outcome anyway.
My Beast reduces my sensory input, emphasizing the negative. When it gets its way, it affects details like word choices and timing, to ensure that I only see and say the things that will make me feel worse. And when it succeeds, it gets stronger, having already shifted me onto a worse path than I was on before.
My Beast is old. It has been a part of me most of my life. It hasn't always had control over me, but it has influenced me for as long as I can remember. I was a second son, and my dad called me a mistake to my face. I was treated as a nuisance instead of a potential benefit, and that shaped me, and fed my Beast. The oldest boy and girl in the family got the attention and praise, and the younger ones just ... didn't measure up. So I went with that, and accepted it. After all I had nothing to lose... and that never works out well.
When I was a teen, my mom and step dad took custody of us kids, and I was much more accepted. They did what they could to make life better, in their own way, but my Beast had already moved in, and I was already established in the pattern of 'the moody outsider'. I did find friends and interests that brought me out of the shadows and into groups and activities that beat the Beast back into the shadows, but it was always there.
When I turned 20, I joined the navy. It was just challenging enough to keep me interested and busy, and there was enough variety to the people and tasks I dealt with to mostly keep my Beast at bay. The self-destructive habits I developed were not the usual ones of substance abuse or sexual extremism - I saw enough of my shipmates falling into that trap to redirect my energies into more subtle and difficult to detect ways of hurting. I took on dangerous jobs. I studied martial arts and weapons. I took up dangerous pastimes.
But through all of that, I still maintained, and mostly focused on, doing creative things, and on not being the person I had been subjected to when young. I did not want anyone to go through what I had. What we had, as I found out then that I was not the only one who had been abused - all of us had, but they hid their abuse of the older ones more effectively than of us afterthoughts. I developed a reputation for being the guy whose methods were unpredictable, but whose results were reliable. I was very effective and rose through the ranks as quickly as is possible. But after 10 years, the navy and I had a parting of ways.
When I got out, I owned a seabag full of clothes, a couple of horns, and a couple of boxes of books. My Beast had spent the majority of my money on fripperies. I moved into my sister's spare room, until I could find a good job and establish myself. Then she got pregnant, and her boyfriend abandoned her. That allowed me to be the Hero (a role my Beast adored) and support them, and I stayed until my Nephew was nearly 5. Doing so racked up enormous debt, as my Beast loved to put me in situations that were not immediately dangerous, and then twisting the knife. Mush as I loved being in loco parentis, I knew I was missing out on a life of my own, especially as during that 5 years I made new friends, among which was a woman I very quickly became fascinated with.
And that was an opportunity my Beast had been waiting for.
The 25 years that followed were years of slow, careful darkening of my spirit. The woman did not share my interest to the degree I desired, the group of friends changed and eventually fragmented, and I spent increasing amounts of time alone. My debt also limited what I could do. Yes, I had things going on - I was in college, and was playing music at increasingly high levels, which was professionally satisfying, but the interpersonal connections I longed for were usually short-term and limited. My choices were bad, and my Beast gloated in my losses. My job muddled on in bureaucracy and I got more and more specialized, which led to more solo special projects, isolating me from my coworkers. My music developed to the point where I emerged into the dog-eat-dog world of Los Angeles playing, which, while financially satisfying (though not as much as some would think), was emotionally draining. And the woman married someone else, and moved into a new circle that increasingly excluded me. I was "Uncle" to their kids, but less and less a part of their life.
And in each case, my Beast gained power. "You're just a useful tool" he whispered when I had an especially difficult task a work. "You're not all that good - there are a million guys out there who could replace you at the drop of a hat" he gloated when I started playing with world-class bands. "You are unlovable" he chortled when I was baby-sitting, and saw her so happy with him.
And it worked.
I isolated myself from my coworkers. I stopped playing music after my car was vandalized to the point where It was irreparable, and I could not afford to replace it. I went through a series of shallow, unsatisfying relationships with women who needed more than I could give them, and after a spectacularly bad blowup, just stopped dating altogether. I stopped going to school, having run out of money. And I grew more isolated, and my Beast grew ever stronger.
Now it wasn't all darkness. I got a job with a much better company - one small enough that building relationships was inevitable (which is so often not the case with giant bureaucracies), but by then I as incapable of seeing that happening. I started playing music again, but this time locally and just for the joy of playing, but the years off of the horn had let my playing and networking fall off to less high levels. And I saw her from time to time, being successful and happy.
And my Beast turned all of this into failure. Of my new job, it said "They put up with you because you're amusing and sometimes useful, but you're getting old, and when they inevitably fire you, you won't be unable to find work." Of the music, he said "You were better than this, but now you're just a washed up has-been... or maybe a never-was." And then she told me her husband had dumped her - the marriage had been rocky for years.
And my Beast danced with glee. He knew he could turn this into his greatest victory. I wished to be her savior, her rescuer, her Hero. At every turn, he nudged me and I went a little too far. I pushed and pulled too hard. I grasped. I wheedled. I demanded. And I knew I was doing it wrong. I saw the hell she was going through, and that what she needed was space to find herself and just quiet support. And it would have been simplicity itself to do that. But that didn't bring the results my Beast craved. He wanted immediate, dramatic results. He wanted blood. He wanted complete victory over me, and knew that was within its grasp.
So I got home from work one very rough day, and instead of respecting her boundaries, I kicked them down. "She will have to notice me after this!" The Beast crowed, and I stood back in dismay, watching decades of friendship shatter into a million pieces. And of course, it worked. She was hurt, she was angry, and she was justified. She told me I had stepped over the line once too often and way too far, and it was unforgivable.
And the Beast got his win. I got out a full bottle of painkillers and a bottle of vodka (and I don't drink), and penned my farewell note (ha! My "f*k you! note) to the world. My Beast danced with glee as he penned the missive, counted out the pills, and opened the bottle. I sat back, watching it all happen, and unable to do a damned thing. The Beast had won. I hit the 'post' button on facebook as my vision browned out, and my last thought was that at least now I was beyond his grasp.
**
As you can guess, that was not the end of my story. After all, I am sitting here writing this, and you are reading it. I don't have net access from the afterlife.
I was astonished when I woke up the next day. Not only that I was alive, but that so much of the darkness was gone. I had not ended, or even ruined my life. Yes, I spent 2 days in the hospital de-toxing my body of 58 Oxycodones and a half bottle of vodka. Yes, I then spent three days in a mental ward under observation (a diary on that experience if you want it). Yes, I am now on 2 months of enforced vacation from my job and close observation from mental health professionals. I am currently staying at my sister's house (another sister) for a week or so, just in case my Beast comes back. But so far he hasn't raised his head, except when her name comes up, and I already know that the one thing I did kill that night was my relationship with her. And frankly, that might be for the best. I had pinned all of my hopes and dreams on her, which was unfair to both of us, especially her.
But I found something out. Life is not what my Beast says it is. I had more than 20 visitors during my 2 days in detox, and a dozen more during my 72 hour mental health hold. I have just gotten back on-line, and have hundreds of e-mails from all over the globe, from people who are supportive and concerned. Musicians I have not talked to in decades are giving support. My coworkers have sent love notes. My extended family, some of whom actually saved my life (my niece saw my post, called my brother, and he called the paramedics - from 500 miles away) are being more supportive than I thought possible.
I am writing this just in case anyone here reading it can identify with what I was going through. If you see yourself in any of this - talk to someone. You're not alone. You have options. You almost certainly have friends you don't suspect. Don't do what I did - big, bold, dramatic exits help no one, especially you. Help is there for you, if you are willing to seek it. And suicide is not painless. Yeah, this has cost me thousands of dollars, and I haven't even seen the hospital bill yet, but screw that - expenses can be made. Money can be replaced. You can't.