Free Fall

Last week when our weather changed and the temperature dropped, I went out on our porch. I could smell wet leaves and chimney smoke as I stood there shivering. Fall had arrived.

I delight in the smells and colors and traditions of fall. But it wasn’t always that way. For years, bouts of severe clinical depression hit me every fall. When the days got shorter and night fell earlier, I fell, too. I was like the damsel in distress in a silent movie—tied to train tracks, helplessly struggling against the ropes that bound me as the train of depression bore down on me. I had no energy. No hope. No ability or desire to cope or even get out of bed.

After five years of this, I dragged myself from my bed to my doctor’s office. (I mean that literally—I was in my pajamas, exhausted and holding on to Monty for dear life.) That day, I began my journey of healing. It took a few months of therapy and some trial and error with medication, but I haven’t had a major depressive episode since then.

I still hear that familiar train of depression every fall. I’m very aware of it right outside my door, ready to run me over. But I’m no longer lying helplessly on the tracks. Now, I’m fighting for the beauty that is full-blown fall.

I fight, first and foremost, by surrendering and falling. On my knees, before I start a new day, I give my day to God and ask Him for the strength I need to live this beautiful season one day at a time. I end the day on my knees, thanking Him for doing just that—because He always does.

I learned another way to fight depression from talking to my cat, Seamus. (Yes, I’m aware of how that sounds. And no, I don’t care.) My Seamus hates trains. When the train barrels through our quiet little town at night, blasting its whistle and rattling our whole house, Seamus gets upset. If I can, I turn on music so he can’t hear it. When I can’t, I give him treats. I discovered that trick on a fall night a few years ago. A train came through town, and Seamus panicked—his pupils dilated, his tail got bushy, and he started growling. I was standing next to the plastic container of cat treats, so I shook it and said, “Come get your treats, Seamus! If you’re eating treats, you won’t even hear the train!” He ate his treats. He paid no attention to the train. And I thought, “Hmmm. I wonder if that would work for me. Could I distract myself from my own dreaded train with treats?” I could and I did. I started by filling our home with all of the fall treats I’d never cared much about—pumpkins, fall-scented candles, candy corn in scarecrow containers. I planned little treats throughout the day to give myself something to look forward to—a new book. An afternoon with Monty. A night of watching “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” with Seamus in my lap.

It would be nice to be the kind of naturally happy person who doesn’t need to schedule treats to get through the day. I’m just not that kind of person. My nature is melancholy; I’ve always been drawn to the darker side of life. I used to wish to be happy the way a little kid wishes to be an astronaut—fervently hoping for a magical future that would take me far from my daily life. Then one day I read this sentence by the writer Louise de Salvo: “The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality.” Exchanging the word “vitality” for “happiness” was an entire paradigm shift for me. I found a definition of vitality that instantly resonated with me: mental liveliness. Happiness seemed unattainable. But mental liveliness? That I could do. Every day, I strive for vitality. I keep myself mentally engaged. I do crossword puzzles. I read. I stay interested in politics and current events. And I’ve discovered a goldmine of mental vitality called YouTube. Want to learn about owls? British poetry in the 1930s? The life of Marilyn Monroe? There’s a video for that. I know, because I’ve probably watched it.

And finally, I give myself grace. There are days when pain makes it impossible for me to get out of bed. Those days used to cause me to panic and jump to the worst case scenario—“I’ll never get up again. This is depression, and that means it’s the beginning of the end for me.” Now, I dig deep for some perspective to remind myself that it’s just one day, not a lifetime. That I’ve survived physically debilitating, mentally devastating pain before, and I’m capable of doing it again. On the hard days, I work to be grateful for small mercies. On one of those days last week, I wrote this in my gratitude journal: “Made myself a piece of toast and kept it down!” Not a huge win for anyone else, but I know what a struggle that day was for me. The toast was my personal touchdown.

I celebrate those personal touchdowns. I look for moments of grace. For flashes of beauty. In the space of this one afternoon, I’ve had the treat of writing, which makes me feel physically and mentally alive. I’ve smelled apples from the candles. I’ve seen the autumn sun make leaf-shaped patterns on the carpet. Seamus has been sleeping in my lap and is now peering over the top of my laptop—I swear he heard me write the word “treat.” This is fall. And I welcome it.

Note: If you’re suffering from severe depression, please get help. You can’t fight clinical depression on your own, no matter how hard you try. My heart is with you on your journey.