EVENTUALLY THERE WAS NO JOY.
Trigger warnings: depression, suicide

In light of the recent suicides of Chris Cornell and Chester Bennington, I feel like it’s important to speak out about my own experience with depression and anxiety.

I have always been a type A personality, but I had a relatively free spirited childhood—really, a dream-like one where I held toads next to ponds, videotaped self-produced theatrical plays with my cousins, and read a lot of books. I was always surrounded by love, something I feel incredibly grateful for.

My compulsive tendencies didn’t rear their head until I started writing constantly in a notebook in late junior high. My dad was experiencing the first signs of his illness and I had lost my grandfather 4 years before. I asked my parents questions about their lives, ran into the private space of an empty room, and obsessively wrote every detail down in my journal. I asked people to repeat themselves so often that people started asking if I was having problems with my hearing. Life seemed fleeting, and I wanted to capture every memory that stood to be lost.

The early years of my dad’s illness corresponded with my high school years, when I began having terrible headaches and would worry myself to the point of insomnia.

But it wasn’t until college that things really took a turn for the worse. My perfectionism became dangerous, as I entered a field (graphic design) where perfection wasn’t attainable. Nothing was ever good enough. People around me were incredibly talented and I felt unworthy and behind. I would wake up and dry heave into the toilet. I pulled all nighters. I cried. And cried. And when it all seemed like too much, I procrastinated. I shut down. And during this down time, all I did was worry about my looming deadlines and responsibilities. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Eventually, there was no joy. I had little interest in doing anything. What was the point? It was 10:00 at night and I realized that I needed to return a VHS tape to the video store or I’d get a late fee. This small, seemingly stupid task sent me over the edge. As I drove to Family Video, I sobbed uncontrollably. In that moment, I thought “I wish this would all just end,” closed my eyes for a second, and envisioned my car crashing. Instead of being terrifying, I felt a cool relief.

After graduating, I found myself in a deep depression during the recession. I worked 40 hours at a Hallmark store and hated everything about it except my amazing co-workers. This was surely the place where my dreams would die. My student loans were burying me. My dad’s health was failing further, and he had trips in the ambulance, false lung transplant calls, and a year during which the transplant coordinator had simply forgotten to put him on the transplant list.

Then my dad died. Don had to stay in Minneapolis to continue our caretaking position at our apartment so we had somewhere to live. My first week back to work (at Hallmark), I told a woman to have a nice day and she responded with, “It’s raining.” This made me unreasonably angry. Our boss at the apartment complex told Don she was concerned that my work ethic wouldn’t be the same when I returned. The rage overflowed.

And even now, when my life is in a much better place, I struggle. My physical health issues have disrupted my emotional health over and over again. While I’ve never seriously contemplated suicide, I struggle constantly with unhealthy thoughts. Many times I seem fine—I am an example of someone with high functioning depression. I keep busy to keep my mind quiet. And I’m on an anxiety medicine that makes a world of difference.

When we say that happiness is a choice, we mean well, but it can have dangerous implications. A shift in perspective is a grueling and difficult thing, and it can’t always be accomplished. It leads us to believe that it’s really that easy. It’s a choice, right? Something is wrong with me if I can’t get there, right? What we fail to acknowledge is the truth in pain—the truth in the chemical imbalance that causes depression and anxiety. This isn’t simply a bad day or a poor attitude. Hearing that someone else’s problems are worse, or that you need to smile, or that you need to cheer up doesn’t fix depression. But compassion, empathy, non-judgment about solutions, and love are things we have the choice to give. modest wedding collections lds and mormon style

While this isn’t a story I ever wished to share in a public forum, it is my truth. And I’ve found that the best I can do is share my story, listen to others, and let them know that I’m there for them. Sometimes there’s little we can do, but we can at least be present and observant and work to destroy the stigma.

So—if you are feeling hopeless, like your joy is gone—reach out to me or to someone else who loves you. You are valuable. The world needs you. If you can, share these thoughts while you’re still in a state where you haven’t completely shut down.

Sometimes life sucks and instead of smiling to please the world, let’s share our struggles as well as our triumphs. Feeling alone in the darkness—like a lonely figure with a heaviness upon you—is more common than we know.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255