Depression doesn’t make you broken—it makes you human. This honest reflection explores how pain can shape purpose, insight, and even greatness.
I was eleven years old when Raymond Wendt and I wrote our suicide note. We sat in my dreary red and white tiled basement and painstakingly wrote our tales of woe. I’d always aspired to be a writer, so I concentrated on making it some good reading. Call me suicidal but I was still drawn to some well-constructed prose.
It wasn’t the first time I’d thought of this solution, but something about having a friend who commiserated with me made it easier to put pen to paper. I won’t go into the sad story of my childhood; even I am bored with it. For those of you who have grown up in abusive households, I’m sure you get it. ‘No way out and no end in sight to the daily grind of anxiety and misery.’ For the first time in a long time, I felt powerful. No longer was I on the receiving end of this pain; I was about to deliver some of my own.
We sobbed together as we wrote our chronicles of pain. I remember knowing that I wanted my story to be much more tragic than his. I’ll say with a little pride that I believe I succeeded! You see, depression doesn’t stay sadness: it migrates. The rage welled up in me as I described the loneliness and helplessness that I was subjected to. I knew that I didn’t belong. That was made clear to me. I was the object of derision, without understanding how and why that was so. I’d learned to be invisible.
Looking back, I realize that my mental state was responsible for a hyper-vigilance and a hyper-awareness I had of those around me. I learned to analyze the motives of everyone in my field and to understand why people did what they did. My depression made me smarter and more aware. I didn’t know at the time that it would prepare me well for my future life. I wouldn’t be who I am or know what I know if things had been different.
Winston Churchill, regarded as one of the greatest leaders of the 20th Century, suffered throughout his life from deep depression. Churchill often referred to his periods of intense and prolonged depression as his “black dog.” One could argue that he was among the most accomplished people of his time. His mental condition didn’t stop him from guiding a country and the world through one of it’s most challenging times.
