Defining

Over brunch, my friend said, “I like how things are looking up—how this illness doesn’t define you anymore.”

We had grabbed four or five meals since I had left the hospital. The last few times, I stared at my food and barely did any talking. But this time, I cracked two or three jokes and we bantered a little. She said that she could see something different about my eyes. Before, I had been spaced out, dark, and sad—but now, there was a slight spark.

At times, clinical depression has felt like being trapped in a fear simulation, stuck in an endless loop. It’s like the scene in the fictional Divergent Series, where Tris Prior is banging against a big glass tank, and the water level is quickly rising to drown her. When you’re in that kind of sink or swim situation, thoughts on ways to escape flood your mind. It’s hard to think about the your future, your career, and your academic research when you are on the verge of drowning.

But I am not my depression. At the hospital, one of my friends had made what I consider to be the greatest group contribution of all time. They named their depression after a person they considered to be their mortal enemy, and every time an intrusive thought crept into their head, they would say, “shut up, [insert the name of the mortal enemy].” It seems so trivial, but it separates depressive thoughts from the rest of your identity—labeling depression as a small piece of who you are and your lived experience as opposed to something defining.

Whenever I say, “shut up, mortal enemy,” I feel like I get a little more breathing space and the water stops rising in the tank for a minute. I feel like I’m fighting against my depression, as opposed to mistakingly accepting that my dark thoughts are who I am.