UNRESPONSIVE

There was a morning last week when my laptop was unresponsive. That used to be when I’d get a spinning rainbow on the screen but I haven’t seen one of those in ages, thank goodness. This time, I just couldn’t log in. I couldn’t even get the log in window to appear. The laptop was just in a mood.

 

Sadly, I can relate.

 

I have had several psychiatrists tell me I’m unresponsive, too. Unresponsive to treatment. For a while, my partner thought that meant I was uncooperative. I have, as he’s pointed out many times, a stubborn streak. I won’t argue the point. But unresponsive and uncooperative are not the same thing. 

 

Like my laptop, sometimes I’m not in the mood to function properly, if at all. We all have off days, but I’ve been going through an off season. Much of the summer has been a struggle. 

 

It’s hard for me to talk about. I don’t want to sound like Debbie Downer, even if the name fits. Sometimes it seems that talking about it—acknowledging depression—feeds the beast. But ignoring it doesn’t work either. Depression won’t stand for that. 

 

When I do talk about it, one of the hardest things for a listener to understand is that my clinical depression is not caused by a particular circumstance like a death or a setback. It’s not on account of a hurdle I failed to clear, leaving me to faceplant on cement and bloody myself from forehead to ankles. To be sure, I have had a harder time dismissing political affronts that seem to always spin from the daily antics of Donald Trump. My mood is also not helped by the fact I’m struggling to write these days. The latter situation is a result of rather than a cause for depression. Even irritating occurrences like bad dreams have a greater impact. I awaken out of sorts and struggle to recover. It’s like that expression about beating a guy when he’s down. 

 

For years, I struggled to find a specific reason for my depression. If I knew the cause, I would have something specific to confront in hopes of having the mood dissipate. What I have is beyond episodic depression that can bring down “regular” folks due to an event in their day or week. Alas, my depression is chronic. Not constant but, when it sets in, it overstays its visit, a lingering house guest that never had an invitation in the first place. 

 

My now-retired family doctor who saw me for three decades regularly told me, “It’s biochemical.” He always said it with a compassionate smile, the underlying message being, Stop tormenting yourself by searching for an explanation. 

 

So, if I’m to fully absorb what professionals tell me, there isn’t a cause I can confront to ease depression. Being unresponsive to treatment—including medications and various forms of individual and group therapy—I just have to sit with my unwanted house guest for as long as it chooses to crash on my sofa, the remote control always in its grip. As this round of depression settled in, I initially felt dread and discomfort. Just because it triggered a sense of déjà-vu didn’t make anything any easier. In this case, a cliché fits perfectly: familiarity breeds contempt. 

 

There are moments of relief. On some mornings, I awaken and feel “normal.” My mood is stable. I entertain the notion that I’ve made it through this latest round of depression. It has moved on. Alas, it has just overslept. If I’m lucky, I get the whole day off. But then, I get up the next day and struggle settles in by the time I brush my teeth. Hello, depression. Back again. It’s the worst kind of groundhog day. 

 

There are moments when I can outrun it. Or out-bike it. Or out-hike it. Exercise gives me a focus or distraction. During all my years of doing step classes in the ’90s, I never felt that endorphin lift others talked about. Back then, I don’t think jogging or biking did much either. Maybe it was just more subtle. Maybe the fact I get so low helps me feel the contrast when a little adrenaline kicks in. Whatever it is, I am grateful for a reprieve. Sometimes that lift stretches until bedtime. The depression hasn’t gone away; it just hasn’t caught up. It’s times like this when I wish I could spend every moment of every day biking.  

 

I have to ride this season out. We’re officially in autumn now. I wish my depression would check the calendar, shudder over the fall chill and head far, far south. If only.

 

Dread and discomfort have evolved into a deeper sense of pain and agony. I tolerate what feels intolerable. I remind myself I’ve had other prolonged bouts of depression that eventually subsided. And so I wait.