I am so “not OK” right now.  If you asked me, I’d say “Oh, I’m OK.  Just tired”  or “Just stressed.”  Just fucking crazy.

It’s hard to remember, but we cannot judge each other by what we see on the outside. 

Every one of us is carrying a cross, even if it doesn’t look like it.  We might smirk and say “Yeah, I’d like her troubles,” but it’s all about what you can bear.  Do you remember being a kid, and thinking your troubles, whatever they were, were so difficult?  Or a teenager?  And yes, often a gentle (please, remember the “gentle”, at least the first few times) reminder of where our troubles fit on the great trouble scale of life helps reign in the terror for a while, but in the end the only person who can truly attest to the weight of our cross is ourselves.

I think of myself as a happy person.  Lively, silly, outgoing, strong.  I am all of those things.  I am also in bitter, bitter pain. 

Not everyday, mind you.  But when the pain comes, it is so very, very draining, on my body and spirit.  The pain I bear has a name, and it carries a stigma.  It is misunderstood, misdiagnosed, belittled, and eye-rolled.  It is a pain of the heart and mind, and I bear it for life.  Here is where you can roll your eyes, or shake your head, say “Oh, that, yeah that’s bad”, but if you don’t have it, you will never really understand.  It’s called depression.

My history isn’t the topic of this discourse, but let it suffice to say that I have every medical, instinctual, and experiential diagnosis to know that this is a physical problem which causes me to feel too damn intensely, and to think too damn much.  There are transient varieties, but I have the chronic kind.  The kind that requires lifelong management, as my body does not have the ability to repair itself. 

If you are uneducated on the subject, have never suffered yourself or loved someone with this condition, then you may think somebody afflicted has sudden, dramatic mood changes without warning.  Or needs to be on 24 hour suicide watch.  Possible, of course, but for most of us, the day to day reality is carrying our loads on our very strong backs with little falter,  But then, an event, or that damn last straw that keeps breaking that poor camel’s back, or simply the passage of time with no ease to our burden, causes a misstep.  And we fall.

The fall is personal.  It is not the same every time.  It may last a day.  Several weeks.  Several years.  It may be obvious, or it may be born with fortitude until the façade becomes part of the burden, and we cannot hide the beast within. 

Do not fear the beast if you are not so afflicted.  If you know one of us, and we are under good medical care, and we have spiritual and emotional support, we are not going to cause you great stress.  Just understand that what we bear is far, far more painful than it appears to you.  And if we fall so hard that we ask for your help, that we ask for a hug, or sympathy, please, don’t turn away.  Chances are if you are a decent friend, spouse, or sibling, you’ve offered the same care to one of us many times before, without knowing it. 

The bonus to loving us is that we will love you back with a loyalty and fierceness that is unequaled.  We will gladly help you with your pain, because we feel.  Our hearts are weary, but huge.  We will joyfully, yes, I said joyfully, share our souls with you, and help you fight your battles without question. 

I like to note that this particular condition is often seen among the great.  Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, Charles Dickens, Vincent Van Gogh.  There is no causality, the lifelong kind of depressive disorder doesn’t make you great (damn!), but I like to think that those who bore greatness as well as depression did so because they both thought and felt so deeply.  I will never be remembered for anything beyond my lifetime, which is fine by me, but I do like to note that I am in good company.

I know what you are thinking…Van Gogh cut off his ear and mailed it to his prostitute girlfriend.  Yeah, that’s pretty off the “normal” chart.  But when you remember that medical treatment during his time consisted largely of cutting arteries, attaching leaches, and administering opiates, plus the fact that he only sold one painting during his entire life, well, you can see why he did not successfully cope with his condition. 

If you are not a fan of Van Gogh, then I urge you, if you ever have the opportunity, to visit the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam.  It will convert you.  Reproductions simply do not tell the tale.  When you see his paintings, you will see he left a little piece of his soul (soul, not ear) among the thick palette knife strokes of vibrant paint.  I know I digress, but in his paintings I felt the soul of one who feels too much, thinks too much, sees both the exquisite beauty and crippling pain in his world.

Of course, there are those among us who are jerks, losers, wack jobs, whatever you like to call people who seem to have a screw loose, but I contend that is often the result of personality flaws, not depression.  Just my opinion.  I have no data to share with you, no scientific studies.

As to what leads me to not be “OK” on this Good Friday, I will save that for another day.  It seemed appropriate that on this holy day, although I did not make it to church, I did reflect on picking up my cross and continuing on.  That I begged God for the gazilltionth time to please, let this cup pass from me.   That I asked not for changes in my life but changes in me.  I am nobody’s savior, but perhaps there is some small blessing that in my affliction I turn to mine.