My thoughts on Depression

Foreword: I had read the following passage, but forgot what it had said until I reread it on 11/28. I feel obligated to insert the following into this entry, so as to indicate to you, the reader, that you can receive therapy that pays the context its proper due, albeit, I imagine, at a lofty price.

"Perhaps the closest to a theoretical framework for this particular trend in therapy [mediated learning experience] comes from French philosopher Foucault (1965; 1973; 1995). Michael White (1995a) in his Selected Papers cites Foucault as a theorist who challenged society's tendency to "examine" and thereby reduce individuals to "case studies", replete with numbers, quotients, labels, measures of deviance and disorders. Foucault (1995) argues that practitioners have objectified the person and made psychological syndromes seem inherent within the individual. Instead of looking at the external faults within cultural practices (that cause dysfunction), professionals look to the faults in the patient; they do not take into consideration the dysfunctional contexts."
- Lazowski, B. M. & Luther, M. G. (2007). "Brief Therapy as Mediated Learning Experience: A Primer". Transforming Lives: Authentic Living and Learning (M. G. Luther, P. J. Gamlin, S. Cook & G. Wagner; ed.), 191-216 (bold mine).

I write this with an intrinsic fear of trampling the toes of those who struggle with depression of all forms. My intent here is to make sense of my own depression, if one wishes to dub my feelings as such, and provide hope to the diagnosed who have been told by professionals there is something wrong with them, something only pills can correct. I would love to receive feedback from each and every one of you, be it a critique of my entry, or any experience(s) you wish to share.

I can't remember when exactly I began having these bouts of prolonged, intense melancholy. I know I was consumed by frequent tantrums as a lad, but can only trace the sadness back to around the fifth or sixth grade, and even then, it wasn't all that intense, for I could always escape into my world of make-believe once the recess bell rang, so I suppose the best place to begin is at puberty. No one thought anything of it, likely because I had a knack for concealing my feelings, but, on occasion, my moroseness made its way to the surface. I remember my mother trying to get me to think positively, though, try as I might, the negativity was just too pervasive. I thought I had turned the corner towards the end of eighth grade, as I found myself being accepted socially, just in time for high school. Ninth grade wasn't so bad, either; I was getting along well with many people, though my social awkwardness often interfered with interaction with others, particularly of the opposite sex (more on this later).

The roller coaster of emotions continued during the remaining three years of high school, each year becoming more intense. I think back to my dramatic arts classes, and the incredible highs I felt while on stage, followed by the intense lows afterward, once I was alone again. Thoughts of ending my own life were regularly foremost in my mind, not to mention the intense anger I would feel, anger I displaced onto unsuspecting family and friends. It wasn't until the end of high school - four years of my life of which I'm not particularly proud - that I adopted the notion that perhaps I was afflicted with depression, and that I needed help. Mind you, I did not seek any assistance - I had one session at age eighteen at my parents' behest, after they had discovered a letter written in my hand - though, sometimes, I wonder if I should have.

Then I think of the pills. I think of the diagnosis, of the professional sitting opposite me, behind some desk, pointing a finger at me, telling me there's something wrong with me. Once upon a time, I would have believed this person. I used to think of depression solely as a disease of the mind, that is, until I started examining its etiology. Yes, each of us has a brain whose physical makeup leaves us predisposed to depression, but is this the brain's fault? For us to experience depression, we have to experience the world; melancholy doesn't occur in a vacuum (forgive me for using a tired cliché). What if the world in which we live wasn't so cold, so cruel, so unforgiving? What if we weren't immersed in negativity? What if we were taught to think for ourselves, to use the gifts we were granted, rather than forced some mold unbecoming of who we are in the name of eking out a meager living?

I firmly believe there is nothing abnormal about my brain chemistry, for if there is, then the same holds for every other person on this planet. Forget being "normal", for it is but the product of someone's construal, and serves only to bring you down; be you. Yes, you are more sensitive to your surroundings; all the more for you to appreciate and flourish within them. You have a beautiful mind, one I would hate to see go to waste. If you feel you need help, think of the people who love you, and turn to them for support. Don't let this "depression" win; more importantly, don't let anyone, no matter how "professional" s/he may be in the eyes of society, tell you something is wrong with you.

Epilogue: As always, I doubt my ability to do my thoughts justice, but there they are, in the best terms in which I can describe them. On a final note, I don't wish to create the impression that I'm resigned to the Thomas Szasz school of thought (he is the author of "The Myth of Mental Illness", a claim with which I do not agree, for the debate is not the existence of an illness, but rather its etiology and appropriate treatment).