A couple of weeks ago I found myself waking up to a numbness that I have had before. It is where depression has visited me during my sleep and when morning comes it is a chore to lift what seems like a thousand pound head from the pillow. When this happens, I call it numbness because I become numb to everything: relationships, conversations, work, exercise, writing, food, myself, and every waking moment. It’s a time where I walk around in an upright, functioning body but my mind struggles to comprehend or care about anything, especially myself.
I hate the dreaded numbness. To me, it is the worst feeling. It is much worse than when I have depression and am completely overwhelmed with great sadness. At least, sadness is a feeling. Tears can be gathered and wiped but numbness is nothing. When I am numb, I feel nothing, or so I think. The truth is, I feel and sense everything. I swallow other people’s emotions and they stick to my pours. I hear people talking and wonder if they see the imposter before them, trying to pretend like he is human. I look at my students and somehow get through my lesson while telling myself that they deserve better. I walk in the door and see my wife and feel sorry for her because she is a witness to the sludge of a man that stands before her. My mother calls and she can hear it in my voice and for a moment I wish that I were not her son, flawed with this dark curse, and I know I worry her. This is when the numbness makes me want to disappear and spare everyone the presence of the dangling, depressed puppet, who is being carried around by a thin pair of strings, acting the part of a man, trying to fool the world that he is actually present and cares. Oh, how the numbness can take your smile and hope away.
Then, while teaching, a young man comes up to me, a student of mine, and says, “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Are you sure?” This young man is very literal and to the point.
“I am doing my best,” I responded.
“You always tell us to take care of ourselves. Are you taking care of yourself?” His question doesn’t sink in because this depression is different. Words do not affect me. It is as if I am outside of my body, being the puppeteer, trying to control my physical and emotional movements, trying to fool everyone and act human.
“I appreciate you asking,” I say. “I am doing everything I can to keep moving forward.”
“You tell us that our best will change from day to day and that it’s okay to not be okay.”
I wonder for a moment why they listen to everything I say. This is because my depression is telling me that I have nothing left to offer. I am a failed educator that needs to move on. Yet, here he is in front of me, telling me that I must have something. The numbness of depression can take away memory, self-worth, words, feeling, and everything. The numbness is when you carry a body around covered by flesh and a full, heavy skull, and it’s all you can do to not just collapse.
My wife sees it. She likes to say, “You have eyes.” It’s our code for “I know you are depressed.” Yes, my eyes do change when depression hits. I see it in the mirror before me. I sometimes look at the man with the “eyes” and say to him, “You piece of shit, you don’t deserve anything or anyone.” Through my vision, the face in the mirror seems older, somewhat unrecognizable. I want to smash the reflective glass. I want to smash him, the burden that has been a son, brother, uncle, son-in-law, brother-in-law, teacher, friend, and husband.
I got an invitation to be a guest speaker at a mental health talk. I chuckle when I see this and say aloud to my wife, “I always get invited to these things when I am in a dark place, wanting to run away from the world and disappear.” I am hopeful that the numbness will lift by then.
I am on the fourth day of feeling completely broken and in a meeting, one of the district administrators tells me that I am overqualified for my position and would love to see me have other roles with the district. It feels good to finally be valued. I hear the words but they do not enter my mind, not without doubt, wondering if she’s just saying it out of kindness. Again, my imposter syndrome is in full armor. I think back to all of the positions I have held, all the times where I wanted to flee them all, escape and be on my way, ridding them of a loser like myself.
I come home on the fifth day tired, struggling to lift myself from the couch I just collapsed on. My energy is totally depleted. My dogs sense it as both of their heads are laying on me, one in my lap and one on my shoulder. Even with them I feel like a burden, as if they could have done better than me, the guy who sits in darkness while they want to walk and play. I stand up, walk them around the block, force myself into my basement and workout. Alice In Chains, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden all fill the quiet void. I push, I pull, I squat, and hold several planks, and then I spin on my bike. I try to lift the depression by moving my body as hard as I can. I even walk into a freezing cold shower and stand there with my head under the water. Maybe I can freeze myself from the numbness? It has lifted, only a little, but there is some life there.
The sixth day I start to feel like a human again. I meditated that morning, fully accepting what was happening to me, realizing that it was impermanent. Though, during the numbness, it was difficult to pull out any strategies. This is why I tell people, you have to practice your coping strategies while you feel good. You need to train your brain and body to perform while you are capable so that it can remember when it is attempting to take everything from you. When it is drowning you in the darkness.
By the end of the day, my confidence had returned. I was having mindful conversations with students, staff, and my wife, and hoping that those who noticed forgave me for my depression, but knowing that it is just who I am and I really do not need to ask for forgiveness for being me. I do not need to feel sorry for being fully transparent and aware of who I am. My confidence has returned. It is when I started to feel human again, like I could be a functioning member of society. However, most had no idea how I felt or what was happening to me because I was functioning and doing so fairly well. I was doing my best and pretending to care about it all.
It is exhausting to pretend. The exhaustion hits on so many levels and leaves you depleted.
The depression lifted by the time I did the mental health talk. They asked me to return for another talk so I guess I was good enough. The student that asked me how I was doing a couple days earlier said to me, “You are a really good teacher. I admire you on so many levels.” I guess this means I am a good enough teacher. I was able to talk with my mother and assure her I was fine and tell her I love her and bring her lunch. I guess I was a good enough son. I was able to be fully present for my wife, showing her love, so I guess I am a good enough husband.
How many of you can relate to the dreaded numbness of depression? How many of you have witnessed it with someone you care about? Many of you will never understand and many will never know it is happening to someone close to you. It is why I plead with society to offer empathy, compassion, understanding, and grace to everyone. You never know when the day will come and you too will be numb, wondering if you are good enough, trying to avoid everyone and everything, including yourself. What I have found through my experience is that no one is immune to depression or anxiety. It will come for you eventually in some form, and that is why I am transparent, trying to help you build the armor to defend yourself.
Be kind! Be thoughtful! Be confident with who you are and know that you are not alone.
