Fuck Depression! (EN)

First published: Tuesday, October 14, 2014. Edited, Nov 06, 2019

Almost exactly one year ago, I was in the depths of despair, feeling completely alone and cut off from the world and everyone I loved. I could not possibly imagine how my life would change in the space of this seemingly endless year.

Now, almost every day, I come home to find gifts delivered by one or other of my neighbours on my doorstep: apples, cakes, flowers, walnuts and sometimes a real-life person who invited me to enjoy coffee, a conversation, a cigarette and sometimes even a meal with them.

Five years ago, I moved to this special corner of "Saint Windy" (as my dear old friend Vic Garbarini christened my adopted hometown), but it wasn't until this summer that I really started to get to know myself, my neighbours, my family and friends.

The catalyst came from a completely unexpected diagnosis of a malignant tumor in my colon, discovered after a routine blood test last May.

When I returned after a successful operation that left me a "beautiful" scar (according to the surgeon - on whom I had developed a crush!), a third of what used to be my colon and an all clear on the cancer front, my neighbours greeted me warmly. One, I was amazed to see, even had tears of relief in his eyes. I was of course very touched.

Sometime later he confessed to me that he suffered from depression, which was why he was always busy working on his house, in the garden, seven days a week — come rain or shine. All this time, I had felt so inadequate in comparison! 

I had no idea then that it would take almost another year before I could truly return to my house and enjoy my new lifestyle.

The next few months, from October to the end of April, I spent in three different psychiatric clinics trying to understand and cope with this deep depression that began as a mild state of ennui that I thought could be cured by returning to my teaching and translation work.

I contacted my clients and told them that I was ready to continue my English courses. They expressed concern that it was too early. I rejected their misgivings. Finally, a few days after the operation, I sat in my hospital bed translating knitting patterns for a magazine on my laptop.

They were right. As always, I had overestimated myself. The overwhelming joy I had felt after my successful operation slowly and, seemingly irretrievably, sank into a

                                                    DeEp, DaRk ABySs

I should have seen the signs after going through a severe depression only two years earlier. I didn't want to go back there! This had taken me completely by surprise, and it took me several months to realize what was happening to me. I had felt depressed every now and then in my life - the way I would complain to my friends: "God, I'm soooo depressed…," the reasons I didn't get this job, the relationship didn't work, even a Bad Hair Day. We had often declared that we were depressed because of the smallest thing.

This first depressive phase, in 2011, had crept over me like an impending thunderstorm, except that no thunderstorm broke out. All that remained was a heavy, suffocating black cloud that enveloped and paralyzed me.  

I fought for months before I finally faced defeat and enrolled as an inpatient in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. I thought I would be gone within a week, but I stayed there for a total of two months, including the last five weeks spent at the day clinic. 

I was taken to a room with an old woman who was crying and complaining about the loss of her 30-year-old son who had died, she didn't know where, and she hadn't even seen his body.

To my shame, I begged her to stop!  I just couldn't handle it right now. I hated myself for my hard-heartedness.

For the first few weeks I sat on a chair in the common room and passively observed what was going on around me, including the old people with dementia screaming for their dead wives, husbands or absent children.

An old woman walked around, commanded everyone whom she faced. She had enjoyed a senior position working at the tax office and was stuck in her previous role. It was interesting to see what an unpleasant person she must have been and how helpless she was now. It was also sobering to see how our negative personality traits can remain when everything else is lost.

During one of the weekly "meetings" where we were given simple tasks, an old man complained that no one listened to him: "I used to be the boss and commanded everyone," he exclaimed in frustration.

There were some sweet, dear patients with dementia. An older woman began to show up for meals sporting light blue eye shadow and rouge. One day she overdid it with the rouge and one of the doctors ran to her anxiously, thinking she had developed a high fever.  Not a bit of it! She was recovering. Her spirit was returning.

Gradually, I formed close friendships with some of my fellow patients and therapists — and we are still friends today. There is nothing better than shared suffering to overcome barriers and build real and lasting relationships.

At the beginning of the second depressive phase, as two years earlier, I lost interest in everything: the knitting and sewing that I loved to do so much, a practice that had always given me a safe haven along with the English teaching and translating that I had always equally enjoyed.

The worst thing was that I could not connect with my love for my three sons. I knew it was there and my heart was aching with loss. I clung to them, desperately afraid to lose them because I was afraid to lose everything, especially myself - whoever "I" may be. 

They were now young men setting out on their own independent lives. Their parents had done a pretty good job, but I panicked. I wanted to turn the clock back to be "Mum," "Married," and "Safe" — no matter at what cost to my own freedom, inside or out.

I tried to turn to my friends and talk to them, but it was hopeless. It was too exhausting for me. I felt cut off from them and the rest of the world.

Desperate, and almost too late, I booked a place at the Psychosomatic Clinic Lahnhöhe in Lahnstein, hoping that I would not be used as a guinea pig for the latest antidepressants. No chance! The head doctor confessed to me that he didn't believe in the various kinds of medications they offered; after I left, the therapist who had prescribed the stuff for me admitted that neither did she.

Well, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH!

This was the beginning of a long, difficult, painful and yet insightful journey back to "normality," whatever that may be. In the following months, I raged and raged against God and the universe, screaming and crying inwardly and outwardly during my long daily walks in the forest asking, WHY did I have to go through this hell after being spared the horror of cancer?

I had been afraid that I would be destroyed by this disease.  Somehow I had died after all. I was dead to the world. Trapped in a glass jar. With my whole being I wanted to reach out through these cruel, seemingly transparent walls and touch the people outside, who, in turn, were trying to reach me. It was not possible.

But there were people who still insisted on reaching out to me, thank God!

What helped me most during the time in the clinic in St. Wendel (the last of the three) was the occupational therapy. My creativity gradually began to flow again and with it my life force.

Here is one of my creations.

The occupational therapists and several fellow patients stopped to admire the pretty, flowery border! It took a while until they noticed the message I had burned into the wood. If you put the parts of the words together, you will get it. 

I returned to life and was excited to be able to FEEL again —  to laugh and be alive! Having barely been able to speak for so long, emitting only a pathetic, whispering parody of my normally strong, clear voice, I talked non-stop. This was a trial for my long-suffering friends.

After not having been able to stand the sound of music for months, I turned up the volume and sang at the top of my voice, in my house, in my car. I still do!

I began to take singing lessons, which offered a lifeline in addition to my regular therapy sessions. During the latter, I was even encouraged to talk, about myself, for 45 minutes without interruption. Heaven!

The most important thing was that I started knitting, crocheting and sewing again — and could fully enjoy the colours and the effect of yarns and fabrics.

I gave this as a farewell gift to a young woman who was leaving the day clinic. She cried: "Nobody has ever bothered to give me a handmade present!

The more I got involved in my new, exciting, sometimes frightening and unfamiliar life, the more the creative juices began to flow and I could gradually ignore the "voice" that had told me for most of my life: "Only Other People are good enough"! Instead, I learned to listen to my inner voice, which insisted: "Yes — you can."   

I started to write a blog about my experiences last year, about my life now — about everything and everyone. Some of my "readers" commented that they had never read such a funny report about depression. Thank God I hadn't lost my sense of humour!

Now the days are cooling off and the nights are drawing in early. I am sadly anticipating the loss of my "outdoor" life as the winter months approach, but I look forward to spending many a cosy afternoon and evening knitting and crocheting in the company of old and new friends.

I am no longer afraid of life. Having been confronted with the very real, very frightening possibility of an early death, I just don't see the point in wasting the time I have left being afraid.