The Fog
Catherine Jacobson - September 25th, 2016
November 30th, 2015 I was rushing across my small private liberal arts campus with a head full of endless to-do lists. I wasn’t rushing because I was late for anything, rarely am I ever late. I was rushing because I had so much to get done that I thought I couldn’t waste time to just walk across campus. The path I was taking is one I, and thousands of other students, have taken millions of times. I walked across the front of a building called Old Main. The title needs no other description. I followed Old Main’s coroner to walk between a classroom building nicknamed GLC. There were half-naked branches draping over the sidewalk. In the front of my person is a small awfully placed circle of grass. This circle of grass is illogical because the fastest route from point A to point B is a straight line.
Right as I was reaching GLC it started to snow. This I believe, was one of the first snow falls of the year. Yes, even in Minnesota that is something special. But this snowfall was almost magical. The flakes were giant and fluffy. I could swear I saw them sparkle. And for the first moment since the beginning of that school year, I stopped to notice the world around me. I watched the snowflakes fall on my bomber jacket I convinced my mom to buy me in high school. There were no other students in sight of me. I looked up at the sky and allowed the flakes to fall on my face. I look around at the buildings surrounding me. And for the first moment in my life I thought, I’ve made it.
I had made it about a year and a half ago from this point, but I never had time to realize it. I was always rushing to places with endless to-do lists on my mind, that I had never took a step back and realized what items I had already crossed off. I never looked back at the fog I had finally escaped. This moment was the first time I thought, I am on a college campus. I am a student leader. I am a straight A student. I have accomplished things in my life I never thought I would have. I am happy. I am alive. I’ve made it.
July 23rd, 2010 your three best friends and sister confront you for the first time about depression. You had a bad day. You’ve been having too many bad days for the past year and a half. You were struggling to get yourself to go out to dinner with them. They had told you that you didn’t have to go, so you stayed home. Your parents went out to dinner with family friends. You were all alone, crying for no good reason. You were daydreaming about what it would be like if they all came home and you were dead. Would they even care? This isn’t the first time you have had thoughts like this.
The blinds on your window allow the setting sun to pierce through, so you cover yourself with your blanket to try and shut the world out. You wanted to be alone with your sad thoughts. Your sad thoughts gave you a reason to be sad. The next thing you know your three best friends and sister are sitting in a circle in your room. Your sister pulled the blanket from you, and they made you sit down and listen.
You seem to be so negative and hopeless all the time.
You lost interest in doing the things you used to like to do.
You’re not as happy as you use to be.
We’re worried about you.
We care about you.
We think you might be depressed or suicidal
They give you all the symptoms of clinical depression you had learned in ninth grade health class earlier that year. I don’t think you have depression. I would know if I had depression or not. What you didn’t know in that moment is that that is not how it works the first time around.
Throughout the next two years this word haunts you. I don’t have depression. I’m getting straight A’s. I get butterflies from boys. I’m eating, I’m sleeping, and I can be happy. This can’t be depression then, right? Depression is for people who have traumatic events happen to them. You just had some pathetic eighth grade drama that you thought helped bring out the true and better you.
That’s right, you think this always overly cautious, anxious, focused, and emotional self is the better you. Sure you cry randomly over nothing in bathroom stalls. Yes, you get easily cranky with your loved ones. Okay, you never think you’re good enough. But those are just normal acts of being a teenager, right? Sometimes the sadness just swallows you up and there is nothing you can do about it. Sometimes you seek the sadness because it is feeling something.
You don’t admit to yourself that you are depressed until April 26th, 2012. Once again you’re home alone. You have been crying all night, over everything but also nothing at all. The desperation falls over you. At this point you know something is wrong, but you can’t admit it to your friends because then they were right, or your parents because you’re suppose to be the “put-together” child. You want all of the hurt and pain of whatever this is to be on your shoulders. This is my life, my fault, my problem. You don’t want to bother anyone else with this thing you have been living with for years. This thing that is becoming who you are.
In desperation for something to help this feeling, something to distract the emotional pain, you go to what the media tells you girls are doing all over the place. You decide you want to cut yourself. The problem is you don’t have a razar. You won’t shave your legs because who would ever want to be with you. Sex is the last thing on your mind right now. You google what you can substitute this for and Yahoo Answers suggests breaking a pencil sharpener. That you do have.
You get the razor out of the hard plastic and make sure to wash it thoroughly. Is this pathetic? Do I really want to do this? The answer reveals itself to you when you cannot even break the skin. You tell yourself that you’re even a pathetic depress. That’s when you break the skin on your left wrist, twice. The act of cutting doesn’t satisfy you, but seeing the blood does. Somehow you feel in control of your own pain.
Of course you have to wear long sleeves to school now. Around the house you can be less cautious because your sister is almost always at work and both of your parents are blind. You’re not good at keeping your secret. At lunch sitting with your friends you pull up your sleeves because it’s hot. You don’t even notice for a few minutes and have to tug them back down. You wonder if they ever noticed. You feel stupid for not even being able to hide your scar, it’s honestly not even out of wanting attention, it is pure forgetfulness.
On April 29th, 2012 you slip up while texting one of your best friends. Someone you think you can trust. You explain to her that you tried something, and that was the honest truth it was only a trial. You never cut yourself again. The scars remained on your wrist for years after, but it was only those two.
May 2nd, 2012. Your parents are confronting you at the dinner table. It’s awkward and refreshing all at the same time. You start to cry silently as your mother explains how she made an appointment for you tomorrow at the pediatrician. She demands to feel your wrist, and a tear falls from her eye when her finger traces your new scar. It stings. You ask to leave the dinner table and go upstairs to your room.
Later that night your sister gets home from work and knocks on your bedroom door. You’re currently journaling but allow her inside. She sits next to you on your bed and just hugs you. She is so close and holding on so tight you can’t even hug back. You’re barely able to tell that she is crying. Hard. You have never seen your sister cry this hard. She is sniffing and having a hard time breathing. All of a sudden you realize I did this, I’m hurting her. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid so badly. So you tell her you’re sorry, and she cries harder.
You sit in a pediatric exam room growing more irritated and anxious as you realize that you’re seventeen years old and there are fish on the ceiling lights and purple waves on the walls. Your mom is sitting on a chair in the coroner, insisting in talking to the doctor with you. The nurse gave you a adolescent depression questionnaire accommodated by a pen attached to a tongue depressor with a fish themed band aid. You answer various questions on a scale from 1-5 such as, I have felt sad most days in the past month, I have had trouble sleeping in the past month, I have lost interest in activities etc. You overthink each question, unable to give some a whole number, so you answer in a half step, like 4.5. You don’t know that you will fill out this questionnaire numerous times in the next year and a half.
The doctor finally comes in. The same doctor that has given you your shots to go to school. The same doctor who has diagnosed you with pneumonia. The same doctor that gave you your first full body physical in seventh grade. Somehow now you feel more exposed to her than ever. Your mom does all the talking. The doctor writes a prescription for an antidepressant that you cannot pronounce, refers you to a therapist, and tells you to come back in in two weeks. She also suggest having a vitamin D screening, which consists of a nurse drawing your blood for the first time. You’re anxiety is already through the roof, so yeah, why not cross another fear off of your list. As the nurse asks you to lift your sleeve for the needle you can feel her sympathetic, yet judging eyes land on your scar.
You have to learn to swallow pills now. This first medication gives you bad headaches and stomachaches. The second one changes who you are as a person, you become emotionless and lazy, and still depressed. Your pediatrician then refers you to a psychiatrist, who prescribes a third medication that just doesn't seem to do anything. You have tried all of these for a month with various lengths of tapering off and no medications between them. This is a fear you didn’t know you had, asking for help and having no possible help exist.
You’re rude to your therapist. You think that it’s pointless, she is just a forced friend that you can tell your pitty problems too. Except, she doesn’t actually care. She is getting paid to listen to you complain.
They take you off medication completely. Explain that it’s a sign you’re body doesn’t want medication and will fix it on it’s own. Another reason for you to hate your body.
You finally did something, you asked for help, and help, like everything else seems hopeless. You question whether or not you have depression, or if this is just who you are and who you always will be. This scares you because you are afraid that you wasted everyones time and love.
Throughout the remainder of high school you find yourself still crying for no reason. You begin not to care who knows about your sadness. You cry in the middle of the commons during lunch with your friends sitting next to you. You leave school several times because you can’t handle it. Your friends send you to the school counselor who annoys you more than your own.
You get frustrated with her and explain that you’re already going to a therapist and have already tried medication, and you don’t understand why the school needs to get involved. Why does she has the right to take you out of classes just to talk? She smirks and announces that she sees her past self in you. This ignites you, she doesn’t even fucking know who you are. Yet, secretly you take it as a compliment. No one has told you that before. You never thought anyone would want to see themselves in you ever.
Two things got you through this lengthy depressed slump. The first is that yes, you believe you were completely worthless in this world, but if your purpose could be to make the world a little less miserable for those who have a chance to be happy, if you could help someone else even if you had to work through your own misery, then you could bear to live with yourself. The second was that you knew high school doesn’t last forever. You had this hope that college would be better. There were times that you did really believe this was going to be your life forever. No matter where you go or who you surround yourself with. Maybe you just are depression.
But I’ve made it. I am happy. November 30th, 2015 was the first time I let myself remember what I went through. It was the first time I realized that I have made it through that depressed slump. I am still not exactly sure what broke me out of the fog of depression. I do know that it was not tears, razors, or pills.
I also know that I still have foggy days and weeks. But now I know what signs to look for, so I can try and blow it away before it swallows me. I know that this fog will always follow me around. I am expecting it. I am anticipating it. The snow that fell on my face during that November afternoon reminded me that there are all types of weather. I now know, and you now know that these forecasts don’t define us. We are not depression. We know that we are capable of happiness. We know that we can and we will always get through the fog, and that knowledge in itself can bring a change in weather.
Right as I was reaching GLC it started to snow. This I believe, was one of the first snow falls of the year. Yes, even in Minnesota that is something special. But this snowfall was almost magical. The flakes were giant and fluffy. I could swear I saw them sparkle. And for the first moment since the beginning of that school year, I stopped to notice the world around me. I watched the snowflakes fall on my bomber jacket I convinced my mom to buy me in high school. There were no other students in sight of me. I looked up at the sky and allowed the flakes to fall on my face. I look around at the buildings surrounding me. And for the first moment in my life I thought, I’ve made it.
I had made it about a year and a half ago from this point, but I never had time to realize it. I was always rushing to places with endless to-do lists on my mind, that I had never took a step back and realized what items I had already crossed off. I never looked back at the fog I had finally escaped. This moment was the first time I thought, I am on a college campus. I am a student leader. I am a straight A student. I have accomplished things in my life I never thought I would have. I am happy. I am alive. I’ve made it.
July 23rd, 2010 your three best friends and sister confront you for the first time about depression. You had a bad day. You’ve been having too many bad days for the past year and a half. You were struggling to get yourself to go out to dinner with them. They had told you that you didn’t have to go, so you stayed home. Your parents went out to dinner with family friends. You were all alone, crying for no good reason. You were daydreaming about what it would be like if they all came home and you were dead. Would they even care? This isn’t the first time you have had thoughts like this.
The blinds on your window allow the setting sun to pierce through, so you cover yourself with your blanket to try and shut the world out. You wanted to be alone with your sad thoughts. Your sad thoughts gave you a reason to be sad. The next thing you know your three best friends and sister are sitting in a circle in your room. Your sister pulled the blanket from you, and they made you sit down and listen.
You seem to be so negative and hopeless all the time.
You lost interest in doing the things you used to like to do.
You’re not as happy as you use to be.
We’re worried about you.
We care about you.
We think you might be depressed or suicidal
They give you all the symptoms of clinical depression you had learned in ninth grade health class earlier that year. I don’t think you have depression. I would know if I had depression or not. What you didn’t know in that moment is that that is not how it works the first time around.
Throughout the next two years this word haunts you. I don’t have depression. I’m getting straight A’s. I get butterflies from boys. I’m eating, I’m sleeping, and I can be happy. This can’t be depression then, right? Depression is for people who have traumatic events happen to them. You just had some pathetic eighth grade drama that you thought helped bring out the true and better you.
That’s right, you think this always overly cautious, anxious, focused, and emotional self is the better you. Sure you cry randomly over nothing in bathroom stalls. Yes, you get easily cranky with your loved ones. Okay, you never think you’re good enough. But those are just normal acts of being a teenager, right? Sometimes the sadness just swallows you up and there is nothing you can do about it. Sometimes you seek the sadness because it is feeling something.
You don’t admit to yourself that you are depressed until April 26th, 2012. Once again you’re home alone. You have been crying all night, over everything but also nothing at all. The desperation falls over you. At this point you know something is wrong, but you can’t admit it to your friends because then they were right, or your parents because you’re suppose to be the “put-together” child. You want all of the hurt and pain of whatever this is to be on your shoulders. This is my life, my fault, my problem. You don’t want to bother anyone else with this thing you have been living with for years. This thing that is becoming who you are.
In desperation for something to help this feeling, something to distract the emotional pain, you go to what the media tells you girls are doing all over the place. You decide you want to cut yourself. The problem is you don’t have a razar. You won’t shave your legs because who would ever want to be with you. Sex is the last thing on your mind right now. You google what you can substitute this for and Yahoo Answers suggests breaking a pencil sharpener. That you do have.
You get the razor out of the hard plastic and make sure to wash it thoroughly. Is this pathetic? Do I really want to do this? The answer reveals itself to you when you cannot even break the skin. You tell yourself that you’re even a pathetic depress. That’s when you break the skin on your left wrist, twice. The act of cutting doesn’t satisfy you, but seeing the blood does. Somehow you feel in control of your own pain.
Of course you have to wear long sleeves to school now. Around the house you can be less cautious because your sister is almost always at work and both of your parents are blind. You’re not good at keeping your secret. At lunch sitting with your friends you pull up your sleeves because it’s hot. You don’t even notice for a few minutes and have to tug them back down. You wonder if they ever noticed. You feel stupid for not even being able to hide your scar, it’s honestly not even out of wanting attention, it is pure forgetfulness.
On April 29th, 2012 you slip up while texting one of your best friends. Someone you think you can trust. You explain to her that you tried something, and that was the honest truth it was only a trial. You never cut yourself again. The scars remained on your wrist for years after, but it was only those two.
May 2nd, 2012. Your parents are confronting you at the dinner table. It’s awkward and refreshing all at the same time. You start to cry silently as your mother explains how she made an appointment for you tomorrow at the pediatrician. She demands to feel your wrist, and a tear falls from her eye when her finger traces your new scar. It stings. You ask to leave the dinner table and go upstairs to your room.
Later that night your sister gets home from work and knocks on your bedroom door. You’re currently journaling but allow her inside. She sits next to you on your bed and just hugs you. She is so close and holding on so tight you can’t even hug back. You’re barely able to tell that she is crying. Hard. You have never seen your sister cry this hard. She is sniffing and having a hard time breathing. All of a sudden you realize I did this, I’m hurting her. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid so badly. So you tell her you’re sorry, and she cries harder.
You sit in a pediatric exam room growing more irritated and anxious as you realize that you’re seventeen years old and there are fish on the ceiling lights and purple waves on the walls. Your mom is sitting on a chair in the coroner, insisting in talking to the doctor with you. The nurse gave you a adolescent depression questionnaire accommodated by a pen attached to a tongue depressor with a fish themed band aid. You answer various questions on a scale from 1-5 such as, I have felt sad most days in the past month, I have had trouble sleeping in the past month, I have lost interest in activities etc. You overthink each question, unable to give some a whole number, so you answer in a half step, like 4.5. You don’t know that you will fill out this questionnaire numerous times in the next year and a half.
The doctor finally comes in. The same doctor that has given you your shots to go to school. The same doctor who has diagnosed you with pneumonia. The same doctor that gave you your first full body physical in seventh grade. Somehow now you feel more exposed to her than ever. Your mom does all the talking. The doctor writes a prescription for an antidepressant that you cannot pronounce, refers you to a therapist, and tells you to come back in in two weeks. She also suggest having a vitamin D screening, which consists of a nurse drawing your blood for the first time. You’re anxiety is already through the roof, so yeah, why not cross another fear off of your list. As the nurse asks you to lift your sleeve for the needle you can feel her sympathetic, yet judging eyes land on your scar.
You have to learn to swallow pills now. This first medication gives you bad headaches and stomachaches. The second one changes who you are as a person, you become emotionless and lazy, and still depressed. Your pediatrician then refers you to a psychiatrist, who prescribes a third medication that just doesn't seem to do anything. You have tried all of these for a month with various lengths of tapering off and no medications between them. This is a fear you didn’t know you had, asking for help and having no possible help exist.
You’re rude to your therapist. You think that it’s pointless, she is just a forced friend that you can tell your pitty problems too. Except, she doesn’t actually care. She is getting paid to listen to you complain.
They take you off medication completely. Explain that it’s a sign you’re body doesn’t want medication and will fix it on it’s own. Another reason for you to hate your body.
You finally did something, you asked for help, and help, like everything else seems hopeless. You question whether or not you have depression, or if this is just who you are and who you always will be. This scares you because you are afraid that you wasted everyones time and love.
Throughout the remainder of high school you find yourself still crying for no reason. You begin not to care who knows about your sadness. You cry in the middle of the commons during lunch with your friends sitting next to you. You leave school several times because you can’t handle it. Your friends send you to the school counselor who annoys you more than your own.
You get frustrated with her and explain that you’re already going to a therapist and have already tried medication, and you don’t understand why the school needs to get involved. Why does she has the right to take you out of classes just to talk? She smirks and announces that she sees her past self in you. This ignites you, she doesn’t even fucking know who you are. Yet, secretly you take it as a compliment. No one has told you that before. You never thought anyone would want to see themselves in you ever.
Two things got you through this lengthy depressed slump. The first is that yes, you believe you were completely worthless in this world, but if your purpose could be to make the world a little less miserable for those who have a chance to be happy, if you could help someone else even if you had to work through your own misery, then you could bear to live with yourself. The second was that you knew high school doesn’t last forever. You had this hope that college would be better. There were times that you did really believe this was going to be your life forever. No matter where you go or who you surround yourself with. Maybe you just are depression.
But I’ve made it. I am happy. November 30th, 2015 was the first time I let myself remember what I went through. It was the first time I realized that I have made it through that depressed slump. I am still not exactly sure what broke me out of the fog of depression. I do know that it was not tears, razors, or pills.
I also know that I still have foggy days and weeks. But now I know what signs to look for, so I can try and blow it away before it swallows me. I know that this fog will always follow me around. I am expecting it. I am anticipating it. The snow that fell on my face during that November afternoon reminded me that there are all types of weather. I now know, and you now know that these forecasts don’t define us. We are not depression. We know that we are capable of happiness. We know that we can and we will always get through the fog, and that knowledge in itself can bring a change in weather.