The Boy Who Cried Depression

The world was abuzz; birds sang, insects chirped and leaves rustled to the moving whispers of the breeze. The world hummed - with an urgency so vital and organic - and filled me with a familiar joy. It was a reminder of a unified purpose, fabricated or not, of all forms of life. Above, the sun shone through thin clouds, like a beaming companion. It was a splendour that consumed my senses, every time. I took it all in. I held on.

But the world did not. Suddenly, the ground trembled. The trees toppled, angering the birds whose songs are now replaced with deafening shrieks. The insects, confused, fell silent. Above, rain clouds blanketed the sun, throwing the world into a forbidding gloom. I was terrified, for I knew that this was only the beginning. Yet another apocalypse. 

As if on cue, the ground in front of me cleaved asunder. I took a shaking step back, a pathetic attempt to save myself I knew was futile, for the ground also split from behind. I was the target of destruction, every time. The ground swallowed me whole. I shot down like a projectile into the abyss I knew too well. 

Levitating in the darkness of my hellish chasm, I curled into myself. Robbed of my senses and devoid of emotion, I was both numb and frightened as I awaited the passing of another apocalypse. My world never holds on.

Such is the plight of the depressed. Emotionally numbed, they are episodically thrust into the abyss where all control is lost and all voices resonate one message: "you are nothing". Depression is the state of being consumed by self nihilism. Emily Dickinson, in her poem It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up, artfully captured the depressing loss of hope in her final stanza: 

But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Chance, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.

Dickinson asserted that where there could have been a sliver of hope, the mind of the depressed senses none. The very inexistence of hope, the poet says, does not grant one the pleasure of being in despair, as even in despair there is some hope that is unreachable. 

Dissecting the mind to demonstrate in words its functionality has always been a literary feat, depression serving as the example par excellence. In fact, depression has been so difficult to portray that it has established its own cult of misconception in pop culture, and although it is not justified to dismiss the almost exponential hike in cases as the result of misconception, it is not wise to not consider it as such either. 

Thanks to the WHO recognition of depression as a mental disorder, countries worldwide have taken it upon themselves to tackle the issue, especially fueled by the rates of suicide. Counselling services are set to increase by 23 per cent by the year 2026 according to a report by the US Bureau of Labour while private organisations such as Befrienders International are cooperating with network providers to make their suicide hotline free to all. 

In the midst of these attempts, the word "depression" has become very common; more common than the cause would have preferred. With the advent of public awareness and wide media coverage, the risk of misunderstanding the core concept of the disorder is at its ultimate. As with every story or idea, popularisation and frequent retelling put the definition of depression in grave danger of getting lost in translation. And lost it almost is.

The mistake of redefining depression is like the flap of the wings of a butterfly: it offsets the whole screening system, blurring the margin between the disorder and normal emotion. 

Admittedly, it is tricky to discern between sadness and depression. While depression is a chronic, usually debilitating, and spontaneous state of dejection that renders one dysfunctional, sadness is less dramatic and lasts only for as long as the existence of the trigger. A man grieving the death of his wife is sad and will be functional again after some time but the girl who is known to be the life of the party and has thoughts of self-annihilation is depressed. 

The hazy distinction between the emotion and the disorder has rung enough false alarms to raise concern. Mistaking sadness for depression, many people claim to be depressed when unpleasant events take place. Workplace conflicts, relationship issues, losses, failures and deaths may trigger an episode of sadness, but they do not necessarily initiate depression. Often, the ones who claim to be depressed are those who barely make the cut to qualify as victims.

The wave of misconception strikes a hard blow, not on the wrong but the wronged, i.e. the truly depressed. Like a mole within the rank, efforts to raise public awareness seem to betray the original cause. The flooding of social media with supposedly-false announcements of depression has led to the notion that having the disorder is a trend, the "in-thing".

Now everyone has depression. Now it is an epidemic as if depression is spread through sad videos and soulful music. Now depression is just another gimmick to seek attention.

Unlike other disorders, depression requires full cooperation from the general public to seek out those who are troubled and make treatments accessible. This unexpected turn of events has saturated the eyes and ears of society. It has drawn their attention to false claims, away from the rightful target. The cause is slowly losing the trust of its most important commodity, who have begun rolling their eyes at every "I am depressed". A deadly betrayal.

But all is not lost. There is time to amend and to salvage what is left of the believers. The cause will now have to regain the trust of the people; more campaigns, more literature, more clinics. The battle against depression will have to pause and plead harder to recruit allies but it will go on. The depressed will see the light of day, with or without imposters.