Freedom Is a Noun in Theory and a Verb in Practice
I’ve been seeing the phrase “died from depression” or “death by depression” more and more lately; and despite the inherent heaviness of the topic, such phrasing is freeing and healing in a way I struggle to describe. I’m so used to seeing suicide next to words like “committed,” as if it’s criminal, as if it’s so simple. Suicide is extremely complex. My relationship with suicide is extremely complex; and thinking back on my years long battle with it, I always felt like I was at war with myself. Within me there lived an invisible division, glimpsed only between gaps in the gaslit fog.
Those around me (intentionally or unintentionally, consequentially it does not matter) always seemed to frame my struggle with depression and suicidality as a weakness, a moral failing, a choice. The phrase “died from depression” pushes against that in a way I didn’t realize a simple change of language could.
For years I was told depression was my fault. For years I hated myself with all the depth of death because above all I blamed myself. I blamed myself for everything — the lack of energy, the sleep issues, the problems eating. The creaky joints, the random aches, the dark, dark thoughts. How many times did I stare at my sink and damn myself to hell for being unable to do the dishes? How many tears has my laundry basket watched me shed? Such memories are not even yet all that distant. I still feel them within me, gently rapping at my ribs, reminding me the greatest letter I will probably ever come to write is a letter of apology to myself.
As much as society at large needs to grab hold of the reality of depression’s pathology, and never ever let it out of sight, I need to, too. I need to know, I need to remind myself, that the thoughts and feelings, dangers, and implications of it all are not by definition me, they are by definition depression. It’s not me, it is depression.
Truthfully, the affirmation of this illness, my illness, as illness is profound. It’s such a seemingly simple thing, right? Just a simple change of language, shift of phrasing. I imagine someone outside of depression’s gravitational pull wouldn’t notice much of a difference; but for those like me, whose lives have been steeped in the guilt and shame of loved ones’ and strangers’ blame for years, for a lifetime, even for the diagnostic minimum of two weeks, it is profound. And I am so, very thankful for it.
