The Trouble with Wishes

Twenty-five years ago during my depressive and chaotic thirties I wanted, wished even, to be sick. I practically begged for any diagnosis during pointless doctor’s appointments I made, hoping for some sickness or disease. I would have taken anything, cancer, diabetes, heart disease. I felt like I was crazy.

Looking at the madness that was my life from a mature, sober perspective it comes to me I badly wanted a physical diagnosis that would make sense of the chaos in my head. I was desperate for a label to explain my depression, my insanity and on too many days, a paralyzing anxiety. Most of all, I wanted something tangible, anything concrete I could show to my employer, co-workers and friends to prove I was sick… really sick. A ‘real’ illness would verify I wasn’t a loser who avoided work. I wasn’t a slacker failing to do my fair share. It would give me the words to call in sick and feel as good as I could about it, instead of feeling afraid and filled with shame that I had done something wrong and was in trouble.

I was afraid to speak up and tell the truth to people who counted in my life.

I recognize now I internalized the judgments of others, my own included, and the views of the disconnected and unthinking towards people who are the ‘so-called’ depressed. I heard the comments on the shop floor and in the lunchroom about the dog fuckers taking it easy at home, the fakers and slackers who didn’t deserve their pay cheques, the cop outs who always seemed to be absent when the hard work needed doing. I witnessed, and not just at work, the bullying and intimidation of those who were sick and depressed by others lacking compassion and empathy. It silenced me. I was afraid to speak up and tell the truth to people who counted in my life. I wanted to tell them I was depressed, sick, unbearably sad, and on the verge of wanting to take my life.

Instead, I pretended nothing was wrong and I drank… a lot. When I couldn’t cope with life I’d do the ‘coward’ call into work at a time when I knew no one was there so I could leave a message. Then I’d isolate, become invisible and disappear into my basement, some times for weeks to drink, smoke and watch TV. When I could, I’d latch on to any sickness. I could make a cold sound like life-threatening pneumonia or bronchitis, a knee sprain required orthopedic surgery and plenty of rest. Nothing seemed out of bounds with my lies to protect my real illness.

Eventually, I did try to take my life. My crisis was the joining of an imperfect storm. I was drunk. I was alone. I had rented my head to a looped tape playing one of my favourites, ‘If only my life had been different.’ I was vulnerable. I was fragile. I was without hope. I was held for 72 hours. Then transferred to the psych big house.

I’ll never be without my depression.

The trouble with wishes though is that some times they come true, even belatedly. I am now diseased and disordered, but mostly happy and I wouldn’t wish for my life to be different, even with the low number days. I’ll never be without my depression. It is embedded into the essence of me, of who I am at the most basic level, and I will always have work to do to live my best life possible. Embracing the notion of For Me instead of To Me, I’ve come to believe my healing would not have been possible without my trauma. I needed to push through the darkness to reach the good place, the one where it is enough to be humble in spirit and to walk every day in gratitude. That is my wish now.

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