What living with chronic depression and anxiety feels like

By Ryan Cunningham

September 21, 2007 | Imagine living in a box in which all six sides are uncomfortable in some way. Pretend the floor is filled with tacks. Picture one wall is freezing cold, while the opposite wall is a hotplate. Envision pictures of memories so horrid they make you cringe occupy the other two walls. Assume the ceiling is where the rest of the world exists. Imagine living in this box.

My friend Jess told me, "Sunday."

"What about it?"

"Sunday night is when it hit you."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I noticed it right away, like something was really wrong with you. Johnny didn't notice until you started pacing between the fridge and the microwave."

"That was Sunday?"

"Yes."

"What did I do on Sunday?" I was embarrassed to add, "Was that Labor Day weekend?"

"No, that was last weekend. This weekend there was the show at the Pita Pit on Saturday, and we hung out afterwards. You brought boxed wine. It was fun."

"Oh yeah." As if the Earth had switched its poles, I struggled to reunite having fun and Sunday night in the same lifetime. "I remember" is a poor way to start any thought on a night like Sunday night. It's more appropriate to say something like, "I felt," or, "I dreamt." Nothing is in order. Everything wears a costume.

I remember asking my friend Johnny what he thought was wrong with me. I made him list some of my more perverse behaviors: Rocking back and forth while holding feet. Putting stickers on everything. Constantly moving. Impulsive desires: Fries. Scrabble. Legos. Something to fiddle with. Alphabetization.

I knew everything Johnny was talking about, but like a quilt from your grandmother means more than just a quilt, putting stickers on everything means a lot more than just putting stickers on everything. A few burn marks are healing on my right arm. I still remember the matchbook had Martin Van Buren on it. I remember it said he was our eighth president. I remember the match head was white, the matchbook was red, and the burnt match head stuck to my skin the first time. I remember repeating the same act again, then throwing the used matches into the toilet and not flushing. I don't remember what burning my skin felt like.

I want to say this whole thing is some unusual anomaly, that my life is actually fairly normal and sensible. I guess it's all relative.

I've seen movies about very strange, disturbing things in the lives of others. But my mind's abnormalities perhaps aren't all that cinematic. Could you center a movie around a young man who can't step on the cracks in the sidewalk? Would one be enthralled with the story of someone who compulsively drinks glasses of water during unprovoked periods of intense anxiety?

I don't commit any atrocities or do bad deeds. Instead, an anonymous punishment was placed on my innocent head, and the penalty is the personal freedom to decide what to do about it. Do I spend my life building callousness towards any emotion, or do I attempt to confront my pains head-on? Is a healed me a person I can accept as someone who's still me? Will it always be this lonely?

I tried to explain to Jess and Johnny what this whole thing is like for me. I told them it's like living on a very distant planet, and all I receive from other intelligent beings are their radio signals. But again, it's all relative. I know many people who are on much farther planets than the one I'm on. I still have friends, I still go to school and have a job, I still cook and clean and drive all by myself.

Perhaps it's knowing how close I am to being the person I want to be. Also, maybe it's knowing that no one beside myself is really going to know what it's like. True justice will never be done to the description of a secret disease. Some parts of us will never be fully articulated. Shame is sometimes the obstacle, but for me, I hope it is just an inability to interpret the confusion of my condition into the correct words.

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