Breakthrough Depression: How to Conquer That Demon

It didn’t descend on me out of the blue, the way my depressions usually do. No, this time, there was some warning: I started feeling more and more lethargic. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and watch TV. Not “golden age of television” binge-worthy stuff, but embarrassingly stupid things I’d already watched a dozen times before, like old Star Trek episodes and the campy 1960s Batman series. My brain didn’t want to think, and my body didn’t want to move. I should have known.

The problem is, I have nothing to be depressed about. My life is going great—I’m in a new relationship that’s the healthiest I’ve ever known, and it’s a joy just to spend time with him. In fact, we’ve even started talking about marriage sometime in the future. For someone who’s had a string of non-committed men decidedly not proposing to me, it’s a sea change for the better.

Plus, my meds are keeping me stable; my therapy keeps me grounded. I have good doctors and a strong support system. I practice mindfulness whenever I can remember to do so. I exercise more than I used to and take care to watch my sleep and diet. These efforts have clearly paid off because I haven’t had a serious depressive episode in years.

So what gives?

I could sense it sneaking up on me, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it. First, there was the all-too-familiar need to isolate, the growing reluctance to respond to texts and emails. After a few days, the desire simply to be still and not responsible for anything but my own breathing was palpable.

And yet I refused to recognize what was going on. I just curled up into a fetal position and binged on frozen yogurt and let my mind gorge on useless thematic comparisons of the original Star Trek and Star Trek: The Next Generation. And I have to admit, it felt really good to do so, except that underneath the stillness was a nagging voice reminding me that these were the hallmarks of a depressive episode.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I wasn’t alone with my sloth. My boyfriend kept coming into my bedroom, asking me if I wanted to do this or that with him. He didn’t like me laying in bed for so long, and he couldn’t understand the attraction of absolute surrender to comfort food and mindless pablum. It was a beautiful day in Malibu, the sun was shining but not too hot, the hummingbirds were swarming in the alstroemeria. Why didn’t I just come sit in the garden with him and soak up the beauty and warmth?

Every time he came in to check on me, I descended deeper and deeper into malaise. Now I was not only vegetating, I was actively lying by omission to a man I loved. I didn’t want to tell him I might be getting depressed. I never like to admit that to anyone, especially myself. If I do, I know exactly what will happen: The hovering will begin, and soon, I’ll hear those questions to which I have no answer: “What’s wrong? What do you want? Why don’t you call your doctor?”

About four days into this quagmire, he stuck his head in the door once more, and I somehow found the strength to ask him to come in and lie down next to me. It was all I could manage; my physical paralysis felt so strong. “Just spoon me,” I asked, and he did.

After 15 minutes in the comfort and safety of his strong, silent arms, my adamant refusal to face the truth began to unravel. A tear coursed down my cheek, followed by another, then another, and another, until I couldn’t hide it anymore. Soon I wasn’t just crying, I was full out sobbing and could barely breathe, I was so congested. God bless good men: He just handed me a Kleenex and held me tighter.

“I’m not supposed to get depressed anymore,” I managed to say in between sobs. “I’m stable, the meds are working, there’s nothing to be so upset about. What the devil’s wrong with me?”

“Honey, you’re bipolar,” he said.

“Yeah,” I answered, and there was really nothing to say after that.

He was right—I have an illness that refuses to surrender to a permanent cure. Barring future miracles, it will be with me for the rest of my life, no matter if that life is a dream or a wreck. You forget, after years of remission, that the demon still lives inside you and has never relinquished his grasp on your soul.

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But I’m not the same person I was when the demon first stole into my life. He and I have grappled together for so long that I know his innate weaknesses. I have weapons I can bring to bear against him that he simply hates—empirical evidence, for one thing: I’m aware he can’t claim me forever. My episodes always have cycles that last about five days. I just have to hold on and believe, or have other people make me believe, that this torment will pass and I’ll recover.

It feels impossible at the time, but it’s not. It takes faith and resilience and steely courage, and anyone who’s battled major depression has these qualities in spades, or they wouldn’t still be alive. I’ve survived in the past, I kept telling myself; I can do it again. I’ve named the beast, I know him now, and I refuse to let him win.

Sure enough, the sixth day dawned, and I was able to move again. I took a cup of coffee out into the garden, where my boyfriend was reading the paper.

“You’re up!” he said, and we both smiled at the marvelous simplicity of that statement. Yes, I was up again for who knows how long. If not for forever, at least for now, and now is a gift beyond measure.