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Depression
Fighting for My Life
A Personal Perspective: Severe depression and the mystery that is hope.
Posted December 29, 2022 Reviewed by Vanessa Lancaster
Part 5 of a series. The previous installments can be found here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4. Background: I’d recently been diagnosed with bipolar disorder prior to going to India to visit a guru to find peace. I left the guru not feeling at peace but severely depressed.
"I'm just not meditating right…or praying right or…well, it’s just me." I scanned my boyfriend's face for an answer. "It’s me, me, me…" An incessant string of impotent "hail Marys." Mu scooped heaping tablespoons of Italian coffee into the percolator and listened.
“I don't understand. I saw the Truth. What am I doing wrong?"
It was a sweltering summer afternoon three weeks after my return from India. I sank into Mu’s futon couch. Ambulances raced along Hastings past his warehouse apartment.
He adjusted the coffee filter and fired out words, “Stop trying to figure it out. The answer isn't in your head. Meditate more, maybe." Mu tried to put logic where logic didn’t exist.
“You don't get it. It’s pointless.” I squeezed the back of the couch. "I should just kill myself.”
Mu detonated; threw the coffee scoop. Pursed lips and forehead a taught pattern of craggy folds.
“Stop thinking about it so much. And quit feeling sorry for yourself! I've tried to help, but I can’t. You won’t let me!” He picked up his weathered knapsack and keys and slammed the door behind him. I was losing more than my will to live.
Over the next few days, I talked to no one. Not to Mu. Not to my parents. I was dangerously silent. Dangerously despondent. And worse? I didn't care. I lay in bed for days on end, getting up only to go pee or order pizza. The effort to shower was too much. Courage to call someone nonexistent. My hair was stringy, clothes stale. Half-empty coffee cups decorated the windowsill, and Kit Kat wrappers littered the carpet.
Days bled into weeks, passing into one endless suicidal fantasy. But perhaps it was my natural fierceness that poked me to take one last shot at hope, before the "big bang."
I'd talk to somebody; just to say goodbye. I flipped through our local New Age magazine, where Reiki masters, ear candlers, and psychics were listed among clinical counselors. I got an appointment that afternoon (individuals with suicidal thoughts get to the front of the line).
I sat swallowed up in an overwhelming salmon-pink armchair. Across from me, this woman: a psychotherapist with a triangular forehead and smile disproportionate to her face. She leaned forward. I pushed back. Silence.
“Did you know therapist is actually 'the rapist' if you break it up?” There, that would get her going. But nothing.
“How are you?” She looked directly at me, her hands neatly interlocked on her lap.
My eyes were welled with hot tears. “Fine,” I lied and looked away as she leaned closer.
“Really? I want to make this worth your while.” She shifted her weight and crossed her plump legs. I saw knee-high nylons under her bias-cut skirt. “Do you still want to kill yourself?” She didn’t beat around the bush. It secretly impressed me.
“Have you thought of a way?” She took me seriously. I appreciated it. It’s not like I chose this suicide thing on a whim.
“Pills,” I spat out. And choked back more hot tears. “It’s not that bad. Really.” I lied again.
“Where would you get them?"
“Me. I haven’t taken a whole mess of my own meds for months, but I got the prescriptions filled anyway. I’m always thinking ahead.” I leaned closer and whispered, “I’m a planner, you know.” I hoped she’d recoil or shudder or something, but this one, cool as a cucumber. “And my parents. They have something for everything. I can grab stuff without them even noticing anything’s gone. And vodka. Lots of vodka.”
She nodded. An amber amulet held her paisley scarf in place. I hated scarves, but I liked her all the same. “Where would you do it?”
“Man, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. This really isn’t discouraging me. I’m serious, you know?”
“I know.” She adjusted her pendant.
The early evening light streamed through the Venetian blinds. I thought of all the reasons why I wouldn’t go through with it and all the reasons why I would. She just waited.
“Ever since I started studying this enlightenment crap," I burped out, "I feel screwed. I bet this suicide thing isn’t any answer at all. You probably become some etheric blob of energy floating around, wanting to kill yourself. Which is even more frustrating because then you don’t even have a body to get rid of." We both laughed.
She looked at her watch. Anxiety rifled into my chest. As much as I fought with her and barbed her, I didn’t want to go. She was my refuge. I wobbled onto my feet. It seemed slightly perverse to be writing her a cheque.
We never came to any solid conclusions about whether I would kill myself. But at least someone knew. At least I tried.
Then, one of her eyelashes fell from her cheek. And something happened. Something dropped inside of me. Melted out my feet and up. I felt surrounded. Something warm and larger than me was present. I wasn’t exactly hopeful but I wasn’t fixated on death either. She hugged me. “Call me tomorrow.” She had more faith in me than I did. She smiled at me goodbye.
Outside, I walked past a cobalt blue dumpster, past a row of tony office buildings, and then on the corner of an Esso and Tim Horton’s, I decided to make an appointment with the psychiatrist I was assigned in the hospital.
There weren’t any fireworks, no burning bush that led me out of the valley of death. Just a quiet, soft feeling in the center of my legs, encouraging me to hang on for another day. I did. And started fighting for my life.
If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741.
To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.
