I’m grateful for every person who responded thoughtfully after my last post, many with their own stories of depression. I was surprised when some used the word “courage” to describe my willingness to put my experience out there for public consumption. Working in a profession where depression and anxiety disorders are, sadly, commonplace among clients and colleagues (many of whom come to the profession because of their own experience with various disorders, or those of family and friends), it didn’t seem unusual for me to claim ownership of that. In addition, I live in a city full of psychotherapy training institutes which creates an environment where being “in therapy” is almost an expectable event, even a rite of passage. So – not brave – and not courageous.
One communication from an old friend, however, caused my stomach to lurch and my breath to catch. For in a few sentences, I was thrust backward in time to an emotional space I’ve struggled mightily to negate. She wrote, “I vividly recall my uncertainty as an adolescent when you experienced episodes of depression. Although, we had no ‘term’ for the feelings that engulfed your life, it significantly impacted me as your friend. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me! I held onto the belief that if I could be the best friend possible and let you know how much I loved and cared for you that you would survive. And you did, very well.”
My post set my first experience of depression at 19, perhaps because that was the first time of “official” diagnosis, perhaps because I didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to document a murky and dark time. But my old friend is right. I was depressed and sad long before 19 even though we never discussed it and we never named it. “J” slipped into my life when we were freshmen in high school. We’d lived probably a half mile away from each other our whole lives, but we attended different schools up to the 9th grade.
Now in high school, we rode the same school bus. Somehow she and I ended up getting our ears pierced together and from that moment became inseparable. “J” is one of the few happy memories I have of the time between 14 and almost 18. Every day after school, we’d get off the school bus at our respective homes, change our clothes, and head down the graveled shoulder of the highway that ran past our houses, meeting in the middle. From there, we’d walk down to Pic-a-deli, a corner store in the middle of nowhere, stock up on ice cream, potato chips, candy, and pop and settled in on the couch in my living room where we’d watch Dark Shadows together. We walked around in the rain, burned candles and let the wax run all over our hands, cut each other’s split ends, made cream puffs in my mother’s kitchen, went bowling and to the movies on weekends, and cheered in the bleachers at basketball games on Friday nights. We planted a garden, buried “pet” butterflies that didn’t make it, and got drunk together for the first time at her brother’s graduation party. Well, at least I got drunk. I shouldn’t claim to be fully aware of her condition. She was the most important person in my life. And she definitely was the best friend she could possibly be.
Now in high school, we rode the same school bus. Somehow she and I ended up getting our ears pierced together and from that moment became inseparable. “J” is one of the few happy memories I have of the time between 14 and almost 18. Every day after school, we’d get off the school bus at our respective homes, change our clothes, and head down the graveled shoulder of the highway that ran past our houses, meeting in the middle. From there, we’d walk down to Pic-a-deli, a corner store in the middle of nowhere, stock up on ice cream, potato chips, candy, and pop and settled in on the couch in my living room where we’d watch Dark Shadows together. We walked around in the rain, burned candles and let the wax run all over our hands, cut each other’s split ends, made cream puffs in my mother’s kitchen, went bowling and to the movies on weekends, and cheered in the bleachers at basketball games on Friday nights. We planted a garden, buried “pet” butterflies that didn’t make it, and got drunk together for the first time at her brother’s graduation party. Well, at least I got drunk. I shouldn’t claim to be fully aware of her condition. She was the most important person in my life. And she definitely was the best friend she could possibly be.
So what could have scared the hell out of my best friend? I knew what she was talking about the minute I read her words even though for a nanosecond, I tried to not know. For it involved razor blades and my forearms…. not the side where I might have accidentally severed an artery and bled to death but the side where I could feel just enough sting to assure myself that I could, in fact, feel something. I did not realize I had scared her, lost in my narcissistic fugue, believing that my activity might be invisible, as I often felt I was. I don’t think I wanted to die, although I definitely didn’t want to live my life. It’s probably the one time my chronic ambivalence operated in my favor. I don’t remember how long this phase lasted. But it was long enough to be noticed by my boss at the restaurant where I washed dishes on Sundays. I lied and said it was due to my cat even though I didn’t own a cat. I wore long sleeves at home to cover the evidence although I do not remember if long sleeves were appropriate weather-wise. I spent most of my time in my bedroom with the door closed anyway, so it was easy enough to escape notice. My best friend must have told her mother though because I do remember what made me stop. She told me that her mother said she had to stop being my friend if I kept on cutting myself. Her friendship was more important to me than my need to draw blood or feel something real. I stopped.
But what was I thinking? Was I thinking? Obviously, not clearly. My diaries and journals from those days are long gone – tossed decades ago in a flurry of embarrassed “I’ll die if anybody ever reads this” chain reactions. The only written words that survived that era are page after page of “remember this” and “never forget that” lists that “J” wrote to me in my senior year book. I sat and re-read every word she wrote one recent evening to see what was there, hunting through the pages forward, then backward, in an effort to follow her whimsical and circuitous route through my year book. There was, of course, no mention of the cutting. No need to bring up a negative period that, hopefully, was over forever.
Her final year book words to me were, “Our friendship is one of those in a million, something everyone wishes for and only few have. You are the most important thing that has happened in my youth.” I’m not sure that sunk in back in 1971, I was so numb. After graduation, “J” and I grew apart. I’m positive my depression had a lot to do with that because I withdrew from everything and everyone.
I closed the book and turned back to her recent note, rereading to absorb it. After the part about scaring her, she wrote, “The caring and love of friends do not extinguish. Know that I and others truly care. You will survive. Very well.”
She’s right about that too. I did – and I will. Thank you, “J”.
