This isn't a new complaint of mine. I've written about it before, most recently in an essay here. You'll notice that I didn't like the idea then. I haven't changed my mind; I'm just more serious about it this time.
In the past, I’ve dealt with this by creating a thinly disguised fictional version of myself, also named “Mitchell Hadley,” also married to a woman named Judith, and also an author of books. It’s very thinly disguised; I don’t digitally enhance my photos (you should thank God for that), and I don’t make myself anything other than I am.
Understand that I don’t criticize those authors who do make their lives an open book. Personally, I think it can cross the TMI line if you’re not careful, but hey, whatever floats your boat. It just isn’t for me. And it’s something I’d never consider doing myself: until now.
Today, however, I’m dropping all that and giving you the intimate access to my life that so many authors seem so eager and willing to do. You want to know what I’m really like? Fine. Then you’re going to hear about my thirty-year battle with depression, and the toll it’s taken, not just on me, but on those close to me.
At least I think it’s depression; thirty years ago a doctor noted that I seemed kind of down about things, which I was, and he suggested a medication he thought might help, a very mild one. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t really help, either. It did, however, enable me to get stronger, more powerful medications, all by simply telling the doctor that a previous doctor had said I was depressed. Fairly easy, when you think about it.
And to be honest, I do think it’s depression. Nothing that’s ever required hospitalization, and I’ve never contemplated suicide or harming myself in other ways. But there have been times, as one of my characters in my next book says, when “I didn’t particularly care whether or not I woke up in the morning.”
Now, my struggles with depression predate my life as an author, and there are some who might think that I call myself depressed when in reality I’m just sore about my book sales (true), the effort I have to put into things like promotions and social media (also true), and the difficulty in finding the funding for the projects I want to take on (true doesn’t begin to cover it). Some people I thought were friends showed no interest in supporting me or what I was doing, and in the process showed me that perhaps they were never the friends I thought they were.
And then there are all the helpful people who will tell you what being a writer is supposed to mean. Don’t worry about making money; you should be doing it for the love of writing. Spend whatever it takes on editing, production, promotion, advertising, appearances, whatever else might give the book a chance, without worrying too much about whether you’ll ever see that money again. If profit enters into your thinking, perhaps you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Writing is a calling, you see. Apparently the people you pay are allowed to make money from your writing. You’re the one who isn’t supposed to care about it.
Implicit in the diagnoses of these armchair psychiatrists is the suggestion that if I just got stronger, if I quit kidding myself about being the next best-selling author, if I just sucked it up and realized that most people have it a lot worse than I do, I wouldn’t have anything to complain about. Grow up, in other words.
If only it was that easy.
Over the past few months, this depression has not only driven me to second-guess my career as a writer, the value of my writing, and whether or not it’s even worth it to keep at it; it’s challenged me to audit the sixty-six years of my life in such a way that I’ve experienced sadness and grief, and mourned decisions I’ve made or haven’t made, until I’ve had a sense of loss that I can only say rivals that of having had a loved one die.
During these times, I’ve considered trashing my books, withdrawing them from circulation, and never writing anything again. And considering that I don’t really have anything else I want to do with the remaining years of my life, the idea of giving up writing is, in itself, pretty damn depressing. When you’re already depressed, it doesn’t leave you with much to look forward to.
The fact that I continue to promote my books with personal appearances and social media campaigns, and that I’ve even completed a first draft of a new book, doesn’t mean that my depression has gone away, merely that for the time being it’s become more manageable, and I can continue to function at a relatively normal level without letting it show. Until it does. Until something changes. Until something happens that causes me to worry that I’m not doing enough, or working hard enough, or doing it the way it’s supposed to be done. It means I’m a fake, a fraud, an imposter, someone who doesn’t deserve to be taken seriously. And then I’m right back to square one, trying to figure out how to make it through the next obstacle.
That’s a useful thing to remember before deciding that someone is merely whining because things aren’t going his way. You don’t necessarily see this part. You see the book. You see the author appearance. You see the social media post announcing some piece of good news. You don’t see what happened before it, or what happens after the computer is turned off. But by all means, tell me to suck it up.
As I’ve said, it’s very depressing to be depressed. It can paralyze my ability to make decisions, cause me to doubt my actions, lash out at my wife, and mourn everything I’ve ever done in my life. It can make me turn against the choices I’ve made, and regard everything I’ve ever accomplished as so much bullshit. Throw in a little anxiety, and the possibility of adult-onset ADHD, and I’ve got it made.
And one of the very worst aspects about depression is how it eats away at your very humanity. You begin to turn inward so much that you lose compassion for others. You tire of listening to their "complaints," which are clearly so unimportant compared to your own. You want to shout out, "What about me?" at the same time that a billion other people are shouting the same thing. You know it isn't fair, it isn't right, it isn't true. And in the end that doesn't mean a damn thing.
But if there’s anything more depressing than being depressed, it’s not being able to get any treatment for it. My previous primary care physician seemed to treat it as routine, and offered to write a referral to an organization where I could get some “counseling.” Not with a psychiatrist, not with a psychologist, but maybe a licensed counselor, or perhaps a social worker. A friend of mine who happens to be a psychiatrist (but isn’t licensed in Indiana) told me these choices were inadequate, that often these people didn’t have the depth or breadth of experience to diagnose what I was really suffering from and make suggestions on medical and/or psychological treatment.
Now, try and find a psychiatrist in this day and age. If you’re suicidal, you can go to the ER. If you’re willing to wait six months to get an appointment with a psychiatrist, you might be able to stand it. But if you’re simply depressed and want to know what to do to make life a little easier, forget it, my friend. Your insurance company won’t help you. Your clinic won’t help you. Your friends and loved ones won’t know how to help you. Some people will actually try to kick you when you’re down, and only afterward say that they didn’t understand. You’re on your own. And it’s not fun.
As I sit here typing this and reflecting on it all, the overwhelming feeling I have is one of sorrow and grief. My new primary care physician, who has been nothing short of wonderful, has reminded me that the key is to stop thinking that I only have a few years left; instead, think that I’m only 66; I still have many years left. That has helped me significantly, at least during those times when the idea of living for many more years can be understood as good news. It helps put depression in a kind of remissive state.
But it doesn’t get rid of it, and we both know it.
We’re trying to find some medical options, and working on some pharmaceutical ones, but in the meantime, depression does not go away. It merely goes into hiding until it springs out again, the moment that you have a setback, the instant something doesn’t go the way you want it to, whenever you encounter a difficult situation, when someone says the wrong thing to you, whether out of an innocent mistake or because they meant to. Situations that normally anyone should be able to handle—if not easily, at least with a certain sense of routine—appear to be insurmountable. If, that is, you even decide surmounting them is worth it. There is no easy answer, then.
So this is where things are right now. I’m back in one of my furrows, fighting to get back to where I was even a week or two ago. Many days I feel like crying, and there are times, when writing or reading or watching television, I’ll suddenly find tears streaming down my cheeks for no reason. Scenes that I’m writing—scenes that even a few years ago would have left me unaffected—will suddenly fill me with sadness, pain, and grief. And you can use that “my allergies are acting up” excuse only so many times before it begins to lose its usefulness.
I’m just angry enough, and determined enough, to believe that I’ll fight back, and keep doing so as many times as I have to. I’m trying to improve my spiritual health as well as my mental health, which is such a big piece of the puzzle; I honestly don’t know how I could hope to survive something like this without a belief in God. So I’m confident enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to think I’ll overcome it again. I dearly wish, however, that I could figure out a way to do more than just tread water.
Mental Illness Awareness Week comes in October, and that’s one reason I’ve chosen now to write this. Your mental health is as precious as your physical health, and you should resist anyone who urges you to just work through it. And know that no matter how functional, how funny, how normal I may appear here, or wherever else you might encounter me, there are always things going on behind the scenes, struggles that provide a constant challenge, and that it seems sometimes as if nothing will take them away.
And if your reaction to all this is that I’m feeling sorry for myself, so be it. If you think I ought to be tougher, more grateful for what I have, less concerned about whether my books sell, or willing to keep pouring money into them indefinitely because a “real writer” shouldn’t care about making any of it back, you’re entitled to think that, too. Just don’t mistake the ease with which you can say it for the ease of actually living it. And don’t assume that just because you might be able to make it work that way, others can do it as well.
I want to reassure you of one thing, in case what I’ve written here has caused you any concern: I am not, and never will be, suicidal. My faith is too strong for that. And I’m not going to hurt myself. I worry far more about the damage my words might do to people who love and care about me. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone physically. And, quite frankly, the person I’m most likely to turn against is myself.
So that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To confide in you, to make you one of my buddies, to open up and share things with you. Well, I’ve revealed myself in a way that I find both embarrassing and profoundly discomforting. I hope I don’t have to do it again. Is this personal enough for you, out there? You wanted access. This is what access actually looks like. Was this what you meant?
Are you fucking satisfied now? TV
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Thanks for writing! Drive safely!