A hard gift

There's been a new challenge trend spreading through Facebook lately, passed from friend to friend like one of those old-fashioned chain letters.

A friend challenges you to list three things per day for one week that you are grateful for.

I managed to whip through 21 things in one go since I have a lot to be grateful for.

However, it got me to thinking about my major depressive and generalized anxiety disorders.

Is there anything in them I should be grateful for?

I know there is a lot I hate about them.

I hate how they make me feel and how they distort the way I view the world so severely that they make living so very difficult on my worst of days.

I hate them for taking so much from me -- joy, happiness, continued success -- and derailing my life over and over again.

I hate that they cause my family and friends so much worry and anguish when I am really ill.

I hate the fact that, statistically speaking, I will continue to suffer bouts for the rest of my life and that there may never be a cure in my lifetime.

With so much to hate about them, there seems to be no reason to be grateful for them.

But when I looked hard at them, I found there were a few things to be grateful for.

My depression is a part of me, entwined with my DNA. It is just as much a facet of my personality as my sense of humour, my intelligence, my empathy, my capacity to love. Without it, I wouldn't be the person I am. Sometimes I wonder who that person would be, but then I realize it's taken me almost three decades to come to grips with my disorder and to, while not actually loving myself, not hate who I am.

My depression, when not in full bloom, makes me see the serious side of life. I truly believe my ability to be empathetic comes from being so finely attuned to things like social injustice and suffering in others. I found out Santa Claus didn't exist when I was 5. I had seen one of those infomercials that used to run in the '70s showing the incredible starvation in Africa, including pictures of young children with swollen bellies in the final stages of atrophy. Why, I asked my mother, was Santa bringing me toys and not bringing them food? What could my mother tell me but the truth?

My depression has strengthened my bonds with my family, including my wife and daughter. In group therapy I've met dozens of people whose families did not support them, usually through ignorance of the disorder. I, on the other hand, have been fortunate to have a family who, while they might not completely understand what I'm going through, offer me unconditional love and support.

My depression has allowed to me to see how many other people care about me and love me. When I'm feeling my worst, my self-esteem is low and my self-loathing is off the charts. But over the course of the years I've had a core group of friends who have stayed friends, no matter how sick I've become. And they accept me for who I am. 

My depression has led me to express myself through my writing and my music. I don't think I'd be nearly the writer I am today had it not been for my disorder. For reasons not yet totally understood, there is a disproportionate percentage of artists (of all different mediums) who suffer with major depressive disorder. The list is long from Hemingway to Van Gogh to Sylvia Plath to Jackson Pollock. One theory is that people with depression see the world more deeply than others and can tap into their moods more easily in order to create. I know my writing is better when I am more emotional, more raw, more ready to draw on my deepest feelings.

Finally, my most recent bout of depression has forced me to be off work for an extended time. Although I am eager to get back to work, it allowed me to spend more time with Paula and Claire. I also got to spend much more time with mom before she died, time I will be forever grateful for.

So there is some blue sky peeking through the boiling grey clouds.

I just have to remember to focus on the blue.