Chocolate Covered Potato Chip Cake (& depression)

It snuck up on me.

As it so often does.

It started innocuously enough.

As it so often has.

At first, it was the Christmas music. I had been so ready to listen to it, but it wasn’t able to hold my interest. It didn’t move me, I didn’t want to hear it. If anything, it bothered me – all the holly and all the jolly – grating in my ears and on my nerves.

Then my appetite started to wane. My usual need to eat every few hours seemingly vanished. My meticulous menus, so often thought out and planned, were replaced by substandard snacks and last-minute meals.

Next, it was an inability to sleep. My body restless, my mind ruminating – going over and over old memories, new worries. My legs began to ache, from the inside out, down deep. Getting comfortable became a fool’s errand.

Without rest my memory began to suffer – previous conversations and commitments began to slip through the cracks, refusing to take root. I’d wander upstairs on a mission to retrieve my glasses, only to forget what it was I wanted the moment I reached the top of the flight.

Not sleeping and not eating led to not being. I didn’t feel like me. I don’t feel like me.

Work is overwhelming – the sounds of the kitchen panic me; too much, too loud. I seek refuge outside – dragging deep breaths among the snow banks. Blinking back tears, counting cigarette butts on the ground to focus on something, anything, else. I look at customers without seeing them, their faces fading into one another. I can smile, of course, and do what I have to do. I serve drinks and run food and deliver checks with a Cheshire grin. Stretched tightly across my face – it feels foreign, forced. It doesn’t reach my eyes. I wonder if they can tell.

It’s hard to describe depression. To explain exactly how it is to be too empty and too full all at once. To make someone understand the feeling of not feeling. The inability to express what’s going on inside for fear that it may get out. Like a weed, growing out of control, where it isn’t wanted. I suppose that’s where the isolation comes from. It’s easier to cancel plans and not return texts than risk being found out, figured out.

But it was figured out. I figured it out. A while ago, in truth. I felt it coming on, having experienced bouts of depression before, both more and less severe. I knew it was coming when I refused to answer my mom’s question of “are you ok?” honestly. I lied to her and to myself. I hoped it was a fluke, a bad day (or week or two or three or four), something explainable, something controllable. There must be a reason, right? Everything has one. A reason why I’m ashamed running into old friends, unable to meet their gaze, hollowly answering questions. A reason I daydream about becoming weightless, like fog, drifting into the air, a crystalline mist – so different from the leaden limbs I’m carrying. A reason for the tears – uncontrollable and unending. A different reason, surely, than the one I’ve known before. Than the one I know now.

But no, there’s not.

I didn’t (and don’t) want to be depressed. Not after a year that has focused so much on finding and pursuing my happiness – adding and subtracting variables in the hopes of solving this difficult equation.

But, I am. I have depression. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of and it’s nothing to be afraid of. To quote Amanda Shires, “when you name a beast, sometimes it makes it less bestial.” So, I’ve named it. I’ve accepted it. I’ve vocalized it to family and friends. And now I’m vocalizing it here. In the hopes of helping someone else who may be experiencing the same thing. In the hopes of taming the beast.

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