A Day in the Life

Note: This section describes an entire terrible day of depression, as I experienced it when mine was at its worst, as a newlywed. The purpose of this description is to help those who've never experienced it get an idea of how awful it can be, and to help those experiencing it feel they are not alone. If it is depressing to you to read, please DON'T. I feel strange posting it, but I think it would cause a strange gap to skip it, so I'm just putting everything on.
When I wake up in the morning, I do a mental check. How do I feel? Is it going to be one of the bad days? Do I feel anything? Sometimes I don’t feel any sort of emotion, but at least that’s better than the overwhelming darkness. On the dark days I try to go back to sleep. That will at least delay the beginning of another day. I wonder why I have to get up when it’s all going to be the same and nothing is going to feel like living is supposed to feel. I try not to think about the negative feelings because I know if I dwell on it too much I’ll start crying. And if I let myself, I can cry for hours.
I know I shouldn’t stay in bed too long, because if my husband comes home from his early morning job he’ll see that it’s a bad morning already and he might ask me about it. I can’t talk about it, because I don’t understand it. When I finally drag myself out of bed, it’s as if I haven’t slept at all, or maybe slept far too long. I feel groggy and miserable, and don’t have the energy to even take a shower. I eventually do though, and maybe I’ll make myself eat some breakfast.
I try to get to my class right on time. I don’t want to be early because then I’ll have to try to look busy so nobody will talk to me. But I don’t want to be late because then everybody will look at me when I walk in. It’s best to blend in with the crowd, and if I can, sit in the corner where it’s safe. It’s hard to concentrate on what the professor is saying, and I tap my pencil and check my watch at least eleven times during the course of the 50-minute class period. Half the time I doodle on my paper and can’t hold my hand still, and half the time I rest my elbows on the desk and my forehead in my hands, trying not to fall asleep and trying to listen.
After class I go to work in one of the computer labs on campus. I’m a writing tutor, so if anybody comes in for help I’ll actually have to talk. Luckily, I won’t have to talk about anything personal or about myself, just about the paper they’ve written and what they could do to improve their writing.
When I first walk in, my fellow tutor and friend greets me with the most sincere “How are you doing?” that I may have ever heard. I almost tell her that the past month has been one day of tears after another and that the person she’s known is not the real me, because we met just a few weeks before I fell into depression. I waver for a moment between the truth and a simple “fine” because she seems like she actually wants to know; in fact, she may even be able to tell that there’s something wrong. I end up telling her I’m okay, but don’t elaborate either way. I try to find something to talk to her about but don’t feel like anything I have to say can relate to the real world and instead sit down at a computer to do my homework.
I read from one of my anthologies of English Literature for about two minutes, get nothing out of it, and log on to the computer. Maybe I’ll check my e-mail, or maybe I’ll do some research for a paper that’s due next week. I do neither, choosing instead to get on the internet and play a mindless game that’s much like dominoes. I do that for about a half an hour, help one person with a paper, and after my hour-long shift I go home for lunch.
At home I almost cry when I can’t find anything that I feel like eating, and I do cry when Jeff comes home and asks if I’m okay. He hugs me for awhile, telling me it’s okay to cry, and asks if he can do anything. Just his being around me and not making me talk is enough, so I lie on the bed curled up beside him as he does homework for an hour. I think about nothing as he lays a hand on my back and occasionally squeezes my arm to let me know he’s still there. I am so grateful for him and wonder how long he’ll be able to put up with me. Sometimes on my sadder days I fear that he will start to wonder why he married me, or at least wonder what happened to the happy girl he did marry. Somewhere inside of me is a logical glimmer of hope that tells me that he didn’t marry me because I’m always happy, that he doesn’t blame me for having depression, and that believing any of these lies is putting him on a level far below the wonderful person he really is. I know that he will never regret marrying me and I know that he will help me and love me always. But sometimes part of me is still afraid and ashamed.
After two more classes I have to get ready to go to work at my second job. I don’t like this one as much as the writing center, but it’s a good job. I work at a Laundromat and dry cleaner, and some days I sit in the office and try to think of what kind of little cleaning task I should take on. As long as I stay busy I feel good, but if I sit around too long I start to feel almost physically ill because my whole body feels so strange from the depression. Once I actually called another girl who works there to see if she could come in and take over for me, but I usually just deal with it. After all, it seems to be my life now. I let myself cry a little bit in the office, but I know that customers could come anytime and I don’t want to look like I’ve been crying. I go out to the Laundromat area and walk around to look for something to do.
After a few hours at work, Jeff comes to bring me some dinner. We sit in the office and eat together and it’s a bright spot in my day. It always cheers me up when he comes to see me at work because I have an ally in this strange world that just recently became a personal battlefield. He understands that I need him so he stays a little longer than he should, but eventually has to leave because his life is even busier than mine.
I’m grateful to come home from work after seven hours and wish I could just go to bed, even though I know I won’t get to sleep anytime soon. I do some homework, mostly reading, and after I can’t concentrate anymore I get ready for bed.
After climbing into bed I realize that once again I’ve forgotten to read my scriptures. So I try. They don’t seem to apply to me. It’s like nobody ever took into account that some people in this world just can’t be happy even if they’re doing the best they can to be righteous and obedient. I read one page and realize I have no idea what happened, then try to say my prayers before going to bed. I feel bad for how terribly I read from the Book of Mormon, knowing that something in there would probably help me if I had the motivation and energy to search for it.
I kneel down and stare at the darkness behind my eyelids, but can’t seem to get a thought out of my head and up to Heaven. I don’t know exactly what I’m thinking, but I think if I tried to explain it to Heavenly Father, He would be offended. Either that or I would realize I’m doing something terribly wrong and would have to feel guilty for it. I try to listen for a few minutes to see if the Spirit will attend me in some way so that I can at least give thanks for something. I don’t feel grateful for the day I’ve just had, but I can at least be thankful for a husband who doesn’t question my behavior and tries his hardest to understand me. I don’t feel especially grateful for the gospel, since it doesn’t seem to be helping me at the moment. I suppose I am grateful for my jobs, other than the fact that they make me so busy I don’t have time to do anything that I want to do. The one thing I would like to ask for is to be happy, but that seems like far too monumental a request when I don’t feel that I’m doing enough to deserve it. I try to ask for some sort of peace, but my throat seems to close up a little and I feel tears sneaking up behind my eyes and the thought can’t finish itself, so I end my prayer.
Sometimes I think about asking Jeff for a Priesthood blessing. If I can’t get the Spirit for myself, perhaps he can ask for it in my behalf; perhaps he can get some sort of a message from up above that I can’t seem to wrestle out for myself. But I just had him give me a blessing last week, and though it seemed to help for the night, the main result was me sobbing harder than I had for some time. Having already cried two or three times today, I think I’ll skip that and just try to get this day over with by going to sleep.
That’s a whole new fight in itself, though, and I almost don’t have the energy to try to fight the insomnia that comes along with this ridiculous illness. But I lie there next to Jeff anyway, punishing myself more by turning away from him. I don’t know why I won’t even let myself face him sometimes; perhaps I’m ashamed of everything inside of me that he might see in my eyes or hear in my voice. Perhaps I’ve asked too much of him already today and don’t feel like I can demand any more. I should just let him sleep. When he is asleep I feel alone, wishing I’d let him comfort me once more, for only next to him do I feel any sense of security. When I finally do welcome sleep it’s fitful and not very deep, but at least it’s a respite from the day and I don’t have to try anymore.