{artwork: Matthew Taylor Wilson}
I was a depressed person for most of my life. Like a functioning alcoholic, I hid it well. Mostly. Growing up, my parents knew something was wrong but I resisted their help, brushing it off as something that would pass once I made the tennis team, found the right friends, got a date to the dance, went to college. Only when I had done all of that, I still felt empty and alone. My closest friends saw it too, but back then there wasn’t a name for it?certainly not for an ambitious, bubbly co-ed who sometimes cried herself to sleep but was otherwise “normal”.
With the realities of adulthood, life became even more unbearable and the depression palpable. There were bills to pay and bosses to impress, dreams to chase and failures to swallow. I’ve written about my battle with this inner monster here and here. It wasn’t until five years ago that I really faced her. And, after the drugs and therapy and compassion for myself (the toughest challenge of them all), I said good-bye to my inner demons and swore then and there I would never again allow them to take me down. Sometimes anxiety would creep back in, but by now I recognized the signs?a racing mind, lack of interest in things that would normally bring me joy?and would quickly shut them down with exercise and meditation. I had friends who understood my struggle and could quickly drag me back onto dry land before I drowned in self-doubt. Despite my awareness andÂ...