In my younger years, there were certain topics people rarely if ever talked about openly.
One was depression. Another was anxiety.
As a kid, that wasn’t much of an issue to me as I was a pretty easy-going guy, and stayed that way until one April day in a Grade 12 biology class.
Gathering my books at the end of the period, I was gripped by a bewildering sense of terror.
I had to get out of that room. I made my way down a crowded, noisy corridor, stumbled into the library, and found a table to sit down at.
I had no clue what had happened to me in that whirlwind of panic.
The only thing I was worried about was if it would happen again.
It did.
Panic attacks became a ‘new normal’ for me for the next few years. Then they’d be gone as mysteriously as they’d arrived.
That is, until my first year at Red Deer Polytechnic the next year after high school.
Late in the fall of that year, I remember my art history class where it was everything I could do to endure it.
My notes were illegible from my shaking hands and the pages were damp from my sweaty palms. I was terrified and had no clue why.
Life went on like this for quite some time. It was the ebb and flow of panic disorder, always lurking on the horizon, although I didn’t know what it was back then.
Talk of anxiety is common today, but in the 1990s, it wasn’t. I simply didn’t know what to do.
Then in the winter of 1993, I was so depressed my parents made me see our family physician to get to the bottom of what was making my days so miserable.
My doctor referred me to a psychiatrist, who listened intently to me and said it sounded like a classic case of panic disorder.
Panic disorder? What on earth?
We talked a lot about it, about my life, about reasons why this may have happened to me.
There were and are theories, but not many clear-cut answers.
Eventually, I found a medication that brought me a long-forgotten sense of normalcy. It was a struggle to take meds at first, much less sit in the waiting room at a psychiatrist’s office.
Sounds silly that I would feel that way, I know. And it should.
All these years later, anxiety is still with me, albeit mostly controlled.
But the thing is, anxiety and depression often go hand in hand.
These past few months I sensed both descending on me like they hadn’t for some time.
So I started deep breathing exercises. I bought a mood-enhancing light to sit beside for half an hour each morning.
Maybe I was short on the mood-enhancing effects of Vitamin B?
I became more active. Maybe I’m lonely? Maybe it’s this, or maybe it’s that. Everything became an open door to a world of questions and confusion.
I should say that I am also a Christian, so there was this niggling (and untrue) idea that I should be able to pray and believe these struggles away with little or no outside help. Don’t get me wrong - my faith is my rock, but I’ve learned that dealing with depression/anxiety can require a ‘multi-faceted’ approach.
Maybe if I go to this or that new church, or read this book, or hear a certain speaker. Your life becomes a constant quest in searching for answers and any kind of relief.
I’m happy to say that I’m climbing out of this.
Medication adjustments, although hard to endure at first, seem to helping me to turn a corner.
I’m also being more intentional about telling others about my experiences.
I’ve learned that we need each other. It sounds cliche, but it’s so true.
The worst thing to do is to retreat into more solitude. I’m grateful for long-time friends, family, colleagues, and for my faith, which have all helped to guide me to a more whole place.
I’ve grown, too. Sometimes the darkest times are when we are challenged to dig deep, spend time reflecting and praying, and see what’s going on inside.
That runs counter to a society where a fast and even distracted pace is the norm, and you are often rewarded for the more you can cram into any given day.
Even at this point in my life, there have been things I have believed about myself that aren’t true. I’ve had to move forward and leave a lot of lies behind. It’s surprising that even at this point in my life, I’m often fending off so much crippling self-doubt, and feelings of unworthiness.
Why am I writing about all of this?
Because if any of it resonates with you, I want you to know you are not alone.
See your doctor. Don’t worry about being a pest. You wouldn’t be calling him or her if it wasn’t important. And if they do tire of you, find someone else. You have to advocate for yourself.
Pick up the phone and call someone who cares about you. Consider counseling. I’ve benefited from this over the years, and I’m often surprised at how many refuse to give it a try. Believe me, it has a healing power.
Also, people cannot read your mind - if they don’t know you are suffering, they may be distracted to the point where even though you are in a dark place, they don’t see it.
Finally, don’t believe the lie you are a second-class person.
You are struggling, you may be gripped by panic or depression, and you may be fending off despair - but you are not unimportant or weak.
It’s taken me decades to realize that, but it’s true.
You may not feel worthy or lovable, but I’m sure there are folks out there who believe that you are.
Let them in. You may feel helpless in all of this, but it can be those small steps that can turn you in a brighter direction.