The big D

Other people have such good descriptions of depression. My version of depression is a backpack. Most days, for most people, you have the little tiny backpack with enough room for, say, a lip gloss and your phone. Sometimes depression sneaks up on you, like you're being followed by some jackass who thinks it would be funny to pile more things in the backpack while you're not looking: a bottle of water, some self-loathing, a candy bar, and a magazine on anxiety. And suddenly you realize that the backpack weighs a LOT more than you thought.

On the worst days, the backpack weighs at least 200 pounds, which is like 150 pounds more than you can comfortably carry. So you walk as far as you can--to the bathroom, to the fridge, to the sofa-- and then you have to take a knee and gear up for the rest of your journey. And once it becomes too much, you just flop like a Kafkaesque cockroach with your legs up in the air, flailing, because it just hurts so much less when you lay down. You still have the backpack on, but if you lay *just right,* it doesn't feel so bad.

I hate to sound like a bragger, but I have a LOT of experience with depression. I have a condition called bipolar disorder II, which, in my opinion, is the laziest name psychiatrists could think up. I imagine these Freudian doctors (I know they're Freudian because they all have perfect German accents, duh) saying "But ve already haff a perfectly good name for a kind of similar situation! Let's just call it bipolar-vith-kinda-the same symptoms. Like bipolar junior." Hence, bipolar the second.

As I understand it, and it's a cursory understanding at best, the difference between BP1 and BP2 is that none of us with BP2 have extreme highs and lows that BP1 has--it's depression with a couple of hypo-manic episodes thrown into the mix. Like, I had an episode of hypo-mania during the summer, and it led to my getting up at 3AM and really cleaning the house. Like really cleaning. Like I've scared the dustbunnies out of the house and I've started on hostage negotiations with the kitchen grout.

Whenever I think my BP1 friends have all the fun with their higher-than-high manic episodes, I remember their stories of running up $30K in credit card debt or doing drugs or having an affair (or three), and I think to myself, okay, sweetie, you can't afford to be that manic--you'll just have to settle for a few weeks of trying to clean all the things.

I'm much more comfortable with depression. I understand its cycle. It's like those mean girls who you tried to be friends with in high school, and you just kept going back, thinking "This time! This time Meghan will like my hair, and Emily will say I've made the best mix tape EVER, and Ashley will say my butt looks perfect in these jeans." And like clockwork, the hair, the mix tape, and the butt just added to their peals of laughter at what a loser you were. The Mean Girls win. Again. At this point, I'm lost in the metaphor, but you get what I'm saying: inevitably, the depression always comes around.

And what happens when you mix BP2 with the side effects of a stroke? It is not, you may be surprised to know, all kittens wearing unicorn sweaters. It sucks. It's a 600 lb backpack and like no kittens wearing unicorn sweaters EVER.

The only thing that comes close to being as shitty as depression are the cures well-meaning people share with you. "How about some gentle yoga?" Or "Have you tried running? That worked for my friend!" I know these people mean well, and they almost never even have a vocabulary for what I'm going through, and yes, a bunch of them think it's a crock of shit and are thinking "Jesus wept, pull up your big girl panties and get on with it!" but I'M DEPRESSED. I HAVE WORN THESE SAME BIG GIRL PANTIES FOR 5 DAYS. YOU WANT ME TO DO YOGA?

Fortunately for me, these types of friendships usually die by attrition--the people keep thinking up ways I can combat my depression ("Go see a movie! Go on a two-day meditative retreat! Start a charity!") and I keep lying in bed, thinking if I had the energy I'd gently cover their mouths with duct tape.

So that's where I've been since August. I have this wonderful friend who keeps sending me adorable pictures of her boys because they make me smile. I wanted to send her pictures of me, but they were all the same since I just stayed in bed all the time. She helpfully offered to draw dicks all over them if I would send her some, and she came through.

That's my litmus test for friends now: How would you respond if I sent you pictures of me in various states of depression? A. Ignore them and suggest training for a triathlon or maybe some volunteer work B. Draw penises all over them.

Try it. I bet you find out who your friends are.