Steve Ladurantaye: Nobody believes in your depression, (probably) not even you

Depression is so unbelievable that people who suffer from it don’t believe in it, not really. It’s always something else.

The worst thing about being depressed is that nobody really believes you. They try and sympathize. They do make an effort. But your symptoms are mainly annoying to other people — you are lazy, you are bitchy, you are unmotivated, and you are always complaining about being tired.

Depression is so unbelievable that people who suffer from it don’t believe in it, not really. It’s always something else, and there’s always the part of your mind that says “I’m not sad so I’m not depressed. The mood shift was probably just brought on by a few nights of bad sleep; a lot is going on right now, so it’s normal to be pissy, and who doesn’t want to sleep 20 hours a day if given a chance?”

The lack of believability makes life more challenging than it has to be.

A month ago, I started whining to my psychiatrist to have trouble concentrating for any sustained time. It wasn’t a major problem; I just found I was knocked off of tasks easily and got snappy because I couldn’t finish anything.

The next time we spoke, I complained that I was making lists and filling my calendar with meaningless tasks. I know that’s a classic sign (for me) of an agitated brain. I catch myself doing it, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it.

A few days later I started complaining about being tired. Always. So. Tired. The kind of tiredness that makes almost everything impossible, except falling asleep.

I can’t wake up. I can’t sleep. But there are things I like to do, so I try to do them.

Take a nap — can’t do it.

Listen to music — too agitating.

Write something — I’m soooooo boring.

Go for a walk — even more boring than my writing.

Go for a run — boring and tiring.

Talk to people — come on.

Play a video game — I keep getting killed and reload cause I don’t care and load times too slow.

Play guitar — only psychopaths practice at home without their band.

I spent a month complaining about these things individually, sometimes to my doctor but mostly to everyone around me. Not once — not once — did I think to myself, “Oh, I’m a crazy person who rapidly cycles between periods of mania and depression, so this is probably one of those times that I’m slipping into depression.”

It didn’t occur to me because that’s what depression is — a real thing that convinces you that it’s not a real thing. A billion people have expressed it more eloquently, I’m sure, but as I sit here tonight, I’m kicking myself for being fooled again.

One call to the doctor, a medicinal tweak or two, and things will right themselves. A month wasted for nothing.

So that’s where we’re at … told you it would be boring.