SADNESS VERSUS DEPRESSION

I was four years old the first time I was clinically depressed. I had recently developed severe OCD and told my father that I needed to see a doctor because something inside of me was making me sad. Even as a preschooler, I could tell something was wrong in my brain.

As I grew up, I mostly identified as someone with constant OCD and anxiety and occasional depression. Whenever I slipped into depression, though, I remained high functioning. I wasn’t someone who couldn’t get out of bed for days or experienced physical symptoms like body aches. Instead, I mostly suffered from anhedonia (an inability to find pleasure or interest in things I would normally enjoy) and suicidal ideation. I could and would go through the motions, but I had no real interest in being alive. Some of these bouts were longer and more intense than others. But whenever I was depressed, I felt like there was a layer that separated me from my true self. The weight of it never went away, even in moments of levity.

I don’t know exactly how many times in my life I have been depressed, but I do know I am not currently. Which is a bit wild considering the fact that my mother, who has historically been my best and closest friend, is dying.