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Please Stop Asking Me to Justify My Depression

Editor’s Note: If you’ve experienced sexual or domestic violence, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4673You can contact The National Domestic Violence Hotline online by clicking “chat now” or calling  1-800-799-7233.

I recently had someone ask me why I was depressed. Mind you, this was not a doctor or trained mental health worker but rather a coordinated care provider of sorts. I met with her as one of many hoops required when dealing with the bureaucratic red tape sometimes needed in order to get treatment and not fall through the cracks.

I was honestly surprised at the question but began to explain the technicalities of my depression from a scientific point of view. Since my condition was discovered, I’ve done a good deal of research and have a much better understanding of why I struggle with depression from a physiological standpoint. She interrupted me a couple times, stating that wasn’t what she meant. I began again multiple times trying to explain from a physiological standpoint why I was depressed, trying to explain everything from different angles.

After my third attempt to explain, she cut me off brusquely, telling me she didn’t want to hear any medical explanations. She wanted to know specifically what I had to be depressed about.

I was beside myself with shock. Here was this woman with no medical or psychological training, assigned to help me with other issues and paperwork, demanding to know why I felt somehow entitled to claim I was so depressed I was struggling to function.

I felt judged, like I was being put on trial, like I had to justify myself and my diagnosis to this woman who had no mental health training whatsoever because she was unable to wrap her head around the idea that anyone could be able to fade in and out of functionality, being able to “deal” with life one moment only to collapse the next.

I found myself bursting into tears in her office, spewing out a long list of what I could only imagine were reasons she might find “acceptable” for why I was experiencing depression, beyond the physiological reason my brain is missing a key substance needed to moderate my moods. I threw out how as a child, I had suffered from physical, mental, emotional and sexual abuse, how I was gang-raped at 11, how my world was turned upside down at 16 when my mother shot my father and how I found myself on my own at 17. I listed a myriad of abusive relationships and losses in my life. Sobbing, I continued, highlighting one reason after another I felt my depression was “justified.”

Even after my outpouring of pain and trauma, this woman was still unable to wrap her head around why I was struggling to function. She continued to push and probe for answers. She saw the large stack of paperwork in front of me that I had collected for my insurance coverage appeal and could not understand how I could put so much time and energy into it but still insist I was incapable of doing other things. She insisted that if I put even a fraction of the work I had put into my appeal into other aspects of my life, I should have no issues at all functioning. She had seen me smile and laugh with my children at times and commented how I didn’t seem “all that depressed.”

I tried my best to explain. For every hour or day I am able to function and be productive, I have four times as many hours and days when I just collapse, having trouble to even pull myself out of bed to eat or to pee. I have no control over any of it.  It comes and goes at it pleases, regardless of what might be scheduled for that day. And there are so many more bad days than good. On some bad days, I am able to bolt on a smiling mask, pretend to be OK and manage to go through the motions. Other days, I struggle to do anything at all. There are days I just can’t stop crying, when my world feels like it is spiraling down beneath me and days I’m completely numb and cannot function at all. I tried to explain how I do have good days too, but they’re as unpredictable as the bad. I tried to explain especially when it comes to my children, I hold myself together as best as I am able and paint on smiles because I don’t want my illness affecting them any more than it has to.

Contrary to what some people might assume, I don’t happily skip around, enjoying a life of leisure. I have not made up some imaginary illness to use as a scapegoat to escape any responsibilities. I struggle every single day to simply function. I am not complacent with my diagnosis, either. I am in treatment, working very hard to try to heal, hoping I can somehow one day, function better than I am today. I take my illness very seriously. I wish others would too and be more respectful of my diagnosis instead of passing judgment.

I’m faced by this kind of judgment all the time by people who just do not understand depression. They assume I just need to try harder to be more positive, that thinking happy thoughts will magically cure me, carrying me off like a dusting of pixie dust to Neverland. People assume I’m either lazy or faking it. Clearly nobody could possibly be “that sad” to the point of being unable to function.

Even worse than those who make me feel like I have to justify my illness are the ones who either look at me with pity like I’m some poor, broken, fragile creature or those who back away from me like I’m dangerous or contagious. Perhaps, worst of all are those who feel inclined to throw random motivational sayings my way, as if their reminder to stay positive is all I’ll need to chase the blues away forever. Trust me, if all I needed to cure my depression was to smile more or think positively more often, I wouldn’t be struggling with mental illness. It’s not that easy.

No matter what the judgment is, though, I always prepare myself for one because more times than not, there is one and it rarely is anything positive. Seldom does anyone truly understand and empathize. Again and again, I’m put on the spot, forced to justify what I’m feeling, usually while being reminded someone has it worse or that they, themselves, have managed to get through rough times so I should be able to, too. I’m frequently told I should “suck it up” and “get over it.”

Though this may be the first time that specific person has inquired about my condition, no one ever takes into account how many others have intruded on my mental health and demanded answers even when they had no right to do so. While some might mean well and ask out of concern, very few use tact or compassion in their inquiries. I’m almost always put on the defensive, made to feel like I have to justify how I feel.

Even after I do my best to explain everything — though I don’t quite understand it all myself — I am met with doubt, suspicion and accusations. I am treated like I’m lying or lazy, exaggerating or broken beyond repair. I’m looked at as a monster or unbalanced and crazy.

I beat myself up already more than enough for not being able to do as much as I feel I should be able to do. I already feel every single day I am failing everyone around me, failing my children and myself because I honestly want to do more, feel I should be able to do more and cannot understand why I cannot seem to be able to do it. I hate that I crumble and fall apart so easily and am not able to do all the things I feel I should be able to do. I have judged myself far more harshly than I should ever have done and have been trying to be kinder and gentler with myself. I don’t need anyone else’s judgments on top of my own.

Everyone says they want to understand and demands answers, yet very few are supportive when I try to give any. It is exhausting to have to explain everything again and again, mentally preparing myself each time for the responses and judgments to come. I often isolate because it means fewer people to put me on the spot, fewer people I have to defend my diagnosis to in the long run. I paint on a smile and reassure people I’m fine, pretending everything is OK even as I’m sobbing inside because it is easier to lie than it is to have to defend myself for having an illness I have no control over.

In the last year, I have begun talking more and more about my own struggles with mental illness not because it is in any way easier or takes a weight off my chest, but because I am completely exhausted from having to justify and defend myself. I am tired of the stigma attached to my diagnosis. I am mentally ill. Doctors have diagnosed my condition. I should never have to justify my diagnosis or defend myself over how my symptoms present themselves. I am tired of being made to feel like I should be ashamed of my diagnosis or have done something wrong in some way because I am ill.

I am speaking out because things need to change. I am tired of being judged.

This story originally appeared on Unlovable.

If you or a loved one is affected by sexual abuse or assault and need help, call the National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline at 1-800-656-4673 to be connected with a trained staff member from a sexual assault service provider in your area.

If you or a loved one is affected by domestic violence or emotional abuse and need help, call The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.

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Thinkstock photo via BruceStanfield.

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