A disproportionate level of irrational anger. That is what I feel right now. I can feel my blood pressure rising. I’m having difficulty focusing. Why? Because my boss dumped a new project in my lap that I believe to be a pointless waste of time, and the work required is tedious and mind-numbing. And I just can’t bring myself to do it. Every time I try to take the first step, I have a nearly irresistible urge to just run outside and scream. But this project is not the issue. My anger is. Why can’t I just get over it like a normal person and get down to work? Maybe because I am not a “normal” person. I have a mental illness, Borderline Personality Disorder, of which one of the hallmarks is “inappropriate displays of intense anger or rage, and difficulties controlling anger.”

But the anger won’t last. It will first turn inward then mutate into hate – self-hate. What is wrong with me? Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I just be normal? Why am I so lazy, selfish, childish, ill-humored, ugly, etc.? Why am I so worthless?

And there’s the heart of my depression for you. I feel like I bother people just by being alive. I feel like a burden to those I love.

I was first diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder while still in college, though in truth I think it developed in middle school and has roots going back to just 4-years-old. My father died when I was 4, the age my son is now. My mother just died in May, and so I am getting to witness first-hand a 4-year-old’s understanding – or lack thereof – of death. I know that if I died now, my son wouldn’t really understand. All he’d know is that mommy was always there for me, and now she’s gone away and won’t come back, and doesn’t she love me anymore? And so even though my dad died and that was certainly not his choice, I think my 4-year-old brain processed it as abandonment. In fact, I even remember thinking during my elementary school years that, if he had loved me enough, my dad could have beaten the cancer and stayed with me.  But I just wasn’t enough for him.

Or my mother. She checked out when he did. She neglected me and began a pattern that repeated several times in my life – the main woman in my life leaving me for a man. First, my mom neglected me and let my stepfather abuse me. Then my sister, who had become my primary caretaker, left me for her boyfriend (later husband). In college, two different female lovers left me for men. And though my wife assures me constantly that she has no intentions of leaving me for anyone of any gender at anytime, there is a part of me that waits for the day she comes home and tells me she’s leaving me for some Tom, Dick, or Harry.

And so at 4 my intense fear of abandonment (a primary BPD symptom) and my feelings of worthlessness/never being good enough (a primary MDD symptom) began. But it wasn’t until the depression paralyzed me and made me non-functional in college that I was diagnosed. I had struggled with my emotions before, but this was my first debilitating episode. I’m not sure what triggered it. It was my last semester, and I think I may have just gotten overwhelmed by the huge change that was about to take place upon graduation. Suddenly, I couldn’t eat. That amplified my motion sickness, and I was taking two different classes that required travelling to museums, theaters, concert halls, etc. I found myself too sick – or too afraid of being sick – to go. I was sure I was going to fail. I couldn’t handle seeing my friends or even talking to them. I had a single that semester, and I would lock myself in my room and unplug my phone because I couldn’t even handle hearing the messages on my answering machine. I’d sleep fitfully. Then I’d become too antsy at the thought that they could just drop by and knock on the door, so I’d leave and pace alongside the railroad tracks away from campus and the lights of the town. I knew my behavior wasn’t normal, but I couldn’t stop it. Well, I could think of only one way to.

I had my sister come pick me up and take me back to her house in my hometown, hoping it would help. It didn’t. So I called the suicide hotline in the front of the phone book. That led to my first meeting with a psychiatrist, my diagnosis, a prescription for antidepressants, and a commitment to a short term residential unit, which I ended up leaving against medical advice. I opted to return to school with my meds and just see a counselor instead. I stabilized enough to finish up the semester, graduate, and continue living my life, but I’ve never really been the same since.

It’s hard to explain what depression really feels like to someone who doesn’t have it – it’s not just feeling sad or having the blues. Those are normal feelings, normal reactions to the loss of a loved one, relationship problems, or even stress at work. And they are temporary. My depression never really goes away. I have better days and worse days, but it’s always there, lurking.

For me, depression is worse than cancer. I was diagnosed with cancer (endometrial adenocarcinoma) in 2006, and I assure you that the emotional fallout of that was far worse than what I had to go through physically to eradicate the cancer from my body. Even after I was pronounced “cancer free,” the depression remained. And the cancer made me question everything – the very meaning of life itself. I was an English teacher, and before the cancer, it felt like what I did was of the utmost importance. You see, I saw myself as not just a teacher of English but a teacher of life. I began to feel like a fraud. And I began to “phone it in.” I began doing a shitty job, and it was noticed. It took two years of declining job performance, but I was finally called to the principal’s office, and I freaked out. I knew I had to change or I would be fired, and I knew I couldn’t change. My wife was on the other side of the country for work. I couldn’t bear her disappointment in me. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to make our garage airtight, sit in the car, and turn it on. I also planned to take the entirety of my recently refilled Ambien prescription just to be safe. But I called my sister. And she called my wife who was on the next plane home. This was followed by a trip to the ER, placement in a 30-day program, and a prescription for far better antidepressants at the maximum possible dose.

And I’m better than I was before. I quit teaching and am in some ways happier working my silly 9-5 office job. I make decent money. I have reliable car and a nice house. I have my devoted sister. I have my beautiful warrior wife and my awesome son. On a normal day, I’m actually pretty happy . . . but happiness and depression are not mutually exclusive.

When I’m in a down phase, I forget what happy feels like. All I know is it – the depression. Sometimes it’s like a separate entity from me. Sometimes I just see it as blackness. Sometimes I see it as Pitch from Rise of the Guardians . . .

. . . turning all my glittery, golden dreams into nightmares. Other times I see it as The Nothing from The Neverending Story . . .

. . . always waiting to pounce, driving out all light, happiness, and joy and replacing it not with bad things but with something far worse: nothing. Emptiness. Meaninglessness. Pointlessness. Hopelessness.

Luckily my son remains a shining light on my darkest days. But I fear there will come a day when I can’t see even his dazzling light. What will become of me then?