I confess that I have played into the stereotype myself. Even though I have been aware of my depression for at least a year and struggle to live with it, I shrugged off the truth about what depression looks like when I wrote. It is my greatest regret in my re-writing of the Twilight story.
Depression does not look like droopy-dog from Looney Tunes. It's not that mumbling loser in the corner listening "How could this happen to me" by Simple Plan (*gag*) on endless repeat. And it is certainly not the catatonic zombie Bella Swan turns into for four (six?) months when her boyfriends leaves her.
It's Kurt Cobain laughing and playing with a kitten and his newborn daughter.
It's me right now, sitting outside a Starbucks on a busy street and feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. I am reading a good book which I got for free and will be paid to write a review for. I am going to help out at the food pantry later tonight in my community. I have two short stories I'm editing for work and I'm proud of their progress (and the meager amount of money I'll be picking up on Friday!!) I just got a call for a pre-screen to work as a supervisor at Whole Foods (which for me is a dream job right about now). A stranger dropped a mysterious card on my table inviting me to a "party experiment" that sounds right up my ally.
I'm feeling pretty good.
But that's right now, in this moment.
Saturday I got myself worked into such a fury of anxiety that I spent 24 hours vomiting. That happens to me about once every four months and it never gets "easier", in fact it gets worse. Much worse.
A huge part of me is terrified to go to this job pre-screen because I feel under-qualified and over-qualified. My hips are sore from working out last night and a very familiar voice in my head hisses, "See? This is why you stopped doing that. Just stay home. Just disappear."
I just left a counseling session where I used up six tissues (Ladies and Gentlemen, a new record!) and my therapist asked if I wanted to look into prescription medication. She's trying to get me better help, more adequate help, and that stupid voice in my head thinks, "She can't handle you. You're such a mess."
My depression is real. But so is my gratitude and my joy. I'm not an automaton, though I can lapse into that behavior when things are bad. Even at its worst I can still work up a smile for a friend or look presentable in public. Sometimes I tell great jokes or give deep insights. I'm still a human, still complicated and full of contradictions.
Bella Swan turned flat, which was surprising given her already shallow character. If a real person were to tune out like that she would be admitted to care instantly. Some people really get that ill, really disappear that way. But it doesn't look anything like what happened to Bella Swan. Her "depression" is an insipid lie.
When we think about depression in terms of characters like Bella Swan and not people like Kurt Cobain, then the whole person is not taken into account. Any indication of happiness, respite, or social lubrication is taken as proof that "This person isn't really depressed." I don't have to frown all the time to be taken seriously as a depressed person, and that shouldn't be expected of me.
And I'm ashamed that I ever played into that idea with my writing. I'm sorry that I didn't speak up sooner.
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