The photo of me

Somewhere out in the world is an old photograph I would very much like to see again. The image is of myself, eighteen, home after school. With nothing to do that particular afternoon before my nightly ritual of isolating in my room, I sat in a lazy posture in front of the television. Maybe a little Oprah, some local news, or something made for those who place no value on their brain cells—I don’t remember. I wasn’t really watching. Without warning, my blind stare and slothlike state were interrupted by a camera. Just a quick, impromptu snap to use the final exposure on the roll before it was taken to be developed, as you had to do in those days. It was an otherwise unremarkable photo that would be returned in a week and stuffed into a shoebox bulging with similar shots.

I think it’s safe to say I’ll never see this photo again. It’s been over thirty years since that day. If it hasn’t already been given to a landfill, the picture is buried deep in the mildewed, unfinished basement of a house I’ll never step into again; it’s a house that I never considered home, but that’s another story.

Why would I want to see the photo again? In truth, I’d like to see any photo taken of me in my youth. I have only a few. Candid pictures, perhaps more than staged ones, evoke memories and provide proof of existence, which is important in these years when I often forget what I’m talking about, even mid-sentence. But that ordinary, throwaway snapshot is an unusual artifact. It captured the exact moment I realized something was wrong with my brain, that there was a clinical reason I was always trudging through a haze. The picture interrupted one of many silent attempts to make sense of why I always felt as I did. I knew it wasn’t normal. I saw that the world I inhabited was becoming a very dark place. That haze would lift from time to time, but it always returned. It was part of me, and there was nothing I could do about it. 

I have often wondered what it would be like for my brain to function as I imagine it does for most other people. People who can get up every morning and look forward to things, who don’t think twice about interacting with others, and who know how to live day to day, year to year, without feeling like they are constantly battling the pressure and pull of quicksand. I know this much: having a healthy brain is often taken for granted.  

I have severe depression, largely treatment-resistant, and it has shaped my entire adult life. This condition affects people differently, and we must acknowledge that. My experience is mine alone; if it’s similar to someone else’s in any way, that is entirely coincidental. I emphasize this because I often hear others dispute the legitimacy of another person’s struggle simply because it isn’t identical to their own. That’s not how it feels. It doesn’t work that way. Everyone with this condition is a unique case.

More often than not, my symptoms include a palpable feeling of disconnection from myself and the world at large, and I am powerless to dial in again. I can’t focus on anything because my perceptions exhaust me. When I look at others, I feel, and must appear, dead behind the eyes. Everyday activities, no matter how pleasurable or rewarding, often feel like a chore to the extent that I’ll avoid commitments, cancel plans, or ask for rain checks. Even when I can present myself, I’m not always present. It’s like solitary confinement in the middle of a crowd. 

But wait, there’s more. Every muscle in my body carries a subtle ache every second of the day and sometimes a not-so-subtle one. I often think I can feel the force of gravity trying to pull me directly into the earth. I can be hit, without warning, by a freight train of fatigue, yet I can’t rest. Powering down into a deep sleep is a constant longing, but it’s not easy to achieve, even at the height of exhaustion. For extra fun, I began to experience episodes of severe anxiety, which are often accompanied by nausea, jaw clenching, and teeth grinding. 

Genetic? My late father suffered from bipolar disorder, so I might have him to thank. Even the possibility that I am predisposed to the same family of conditions that destroyed his life is a fright I can’t process; his illness didn’t fully manifest until he was the age I am now.  Inherited or not, it was undoubtedly exacerbated by all the hate and venom that was fed to me from all angles as I grew up, not unlike the vitriol that oozes through the internet and into the minds of mentally vulnerable teens today.  In school, I struggled with an undiagnosed dyslexia, which brought failures blamed on lazy or careless behavior, and fanned the flames of worthlessness. We might even consider the steady stream of processed foods and their sugars, fats, salt, and chemicals as mental health vandals. These things didn’t create mental illness, but we’ve been rewiring our bodies and minds into suboptimal machines for a very long time now. 

I’ve seen more therapists and tried more medications than I care to mention. At times, I’ve felt hopeful and made progress in managing my illness, but I’ve also faced some disastrous results. As anyone suffering from a similar condition knows, self-medicating is sometimes the only relief we can find. For me, it’s writing, films, theater, and museums (when I can bring myself to join a crowd). I mainly favor those positive outlets; however, at different times, I’ve also turned to food, alcohol, and sex to numb the pain. And while I don’t use recreational drugs, I understand why people might turn to them. Sometimes, you’ll do anything for a little peace. Unfortunately, many have resorted to all sorts of dangerous methods to self-medicate, ultimately deciding that the best escape is the exit door. A close friend and significant figure in my life did just that after a severe mid-life depression, and there is some question as to whether my father hastened his own death. It happens all too often. What I feel day to day is undoubtedly nothing compared to the desperation felt by someone who has made that final decision. Even in my darkest moments, I can’t imagine leaving the remarkable beauty of the world or giving up the chance to see what will become of us, but I constantly wonder how much worse it will get for me.

A friend once told me I had a very old soul. I never forgot that, and depending on the day, I regard it as either a damning diagnosis or the greatest compliment I could ever hope to receive. Sometimes I tell myself it’s the reason for my condition—a very old and very tired soul whose many lives and struggles have culminated to create what I see in the mirror, inhibiting my processes. Laughable and romanticized, yes, but world-weary is a better explanation than a flaw of the brain. 

I realize my words paint a rather bleak portrait of my life. Honestly, I’m withholding some of the most difficult aspects of my journey. But believe me, I do smile and laugh. More than ever, I find solace in connecting with the natural world and in artistic works that awaken my emotions.  

I don’t know what comes from the thousand awareness days and months we hear about. TV personalities wear certain colors, pins, or ribbons to signify their support, but mainly, the cause in question gets just a split second of attention before the weather forecast or commercial. However, I do know that these days it’s a little less common to have your illness dismissed as a conscious behavioral failing. That much is good. We still need a healthcare system that is fully inclusive of mental health and offers better treatments. With depression emerging in so many young people at such a divisive, dangerous time, we can’t afford not to take it seriously.  That’s the kind of awareness needed—more than a calendar notice.   

Somewhere, there’s a photo capturing the moment I became aware of my illness. If I had it, I could gaze into the eyes of that old soul who has just made a horrifying self-discovery and is completely unaware of all the troubles that lie ahead. I’m not sure how I would react to that. Maybe it’s a good thing I’ll never see it again.