Inside of Depression and Out, or: a Question I’ve Been Curious About for a Long Time

“What is it like to be sad when you’re not depressed?”

Have I ever known what it’s like to be just sad? There was a time before I even thought of myself as depressed where I looked back over my life and realized that I couldn’t ever remember a time when I’d been consistently happy. I don’t exactly think I’ve always been depressed, but I think I’ve always been too obsessed with doing exactly, perfectly right by everyone that I didn’t leave room to ever be satisfied with myself, which is a recipe, at the very least, for constant anxiety.

I know a little bit what it’s like, now. Because for a week or three after I started taking Wellbutrin, my brain changed. I had some days where I was anxious about stuff, but the anxiety was different. It was different and it wasn’t. It was exactly the same feeling that I’ve become rather intimately familiar with over the last quarter-century, give or take.

The feeling was just the same, but the difference, for me, was that suddenly it wasn’t attached to a narrative. It was still rather unpleasant, in the sense of, “Oh dear, this is quite unpleasant, I am not very much enjoying this at all!”

But that was it. It was just there, with me, and unpleasant.

On depression it’s different. It’s the same feeling, but is attached to this dark cloud of “This is the only way things have ever been or ever will be, and it will never get better, it’s all futile, and nothing will ever get better, but there is every possible chance it will get much worse.”. On depression, my brain forgets about the time between episodes. Thinking about the experience reminds me of the idea of state dependent memory, except that instead of being able to remember certain things when I’m depressed, I stop being able to remember anything but the other times I have been depressed. All the episodes and bad moments and hopelessness connect to each other and I can’t remember anything that happened in between. I can’t remember that anything has ever happened in between.

The difference between being sad or anxious or exhausted when I’m depressed and when I’m not is this. The feelings are just the same, but the narrative isn’t. Rather, outside of depression, there just isn’t a narrative. It’s just a feeling. Pleasant or unpleasant, it’s just it’s own thing. Inside of depression, it’s all connected in this tapestry of “This is how everything always has been and always will be.”.

So now I know.

As I get an opportunity to return ambient stress levels to within manageable parameters, I’m hoping I’ll get back to that place and have some time to get used to it. Fingers crossed.

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