A few years back I read a wonderful memoir called "Rage Against The Meshugenah" by a talented and funny writer named Danny Evans. It was about his battle with his severe depression. While reading it I found myself relating with a great deal of what he had gone through. I was feeling the exact same way as he was. I find myself always: Tired. Isolated. Angry. Paralyzed. Lost. Sad. Hopeless. Sleeping.
All of those feelings were flooding through me and manifesting themselves into my life in the same ways that they were for Mr. Evans. But....
I wasn't depressed.
I couldn't be.
What right does a guy like me have to be depressed? I have more than most. I have food on my table. I have a roof over my head. I have been able to provide for my children. I have every ingredient that is necessary to make a happy life.
But...I'm not happy. I'm a wreck.
I've been hiding from it for years. I've refused to admit that it is even possible that I could have some sort of invisible cloud following me around. Despite the fact that I know it runs in my family I would never entertain the thought that I could be depressed.
Now I'm confronted with the truth.
I am depressed. I have been for a long time - perhaps for most of my life. I have hidden it well. I have camouflaged it behind jokes and laughter.
I can't hide from it anymore. I have lost so many yesterdays to it. I'm terrified to think about how much time I have wasted while ignoring it. I have given it too much power over my life. It has been the narrator to my story.
I'm getting help. It's not going to be easy. I hate asking for help. I really hate it. I hate admitting I'm not perfect. I hate being vulnerable. I hate typing this. It is opening myself up way past my comfort zone...there is a real chance that I will delete this backstory within a minute after submitting it.
This road to getting balance in my life is going to be a scary journey.
Time to fight.