The Well Lies to You

This isn’t the column I planned to write this week.

But September is Suicide Prevention Month, and I’ve spent much of this year dealing with anxiety and depression. So maybe this is exactly the column I should write.

I have gone back and forth about how much of this I wanted to share publicly. We’re comfortable talking about some things and keep others hidden. Mental health still seems to fall into that second category far too often.

But I’ve also come to believe that the things we don’t talk about are sometimes the things we most need to talk about.

This year has been difficult for me.

If you’ve seen me around town, read my columns, followed me on social media or walked into my store, you might not have known that.

That’s part of the problem.

You can go to work while dealing with depression.

You can run a business while dealing with anxiety.

You can laugh. You can have conversations. You can make plans. You can write articles. You can post something funny on Facebook. You can help someone else with their problems.

And still be struggling with your own.

I’ve learned a lot about that this year.

But this isn’t my first experience with it.

About 25 years ago, I went through one of the darkest periods of my life.

At the time, I didn’t understand what was happening to me nearly as well as I do today. I didn’t have the tools or the perspective I have now. When you’re experiencing something like that for the first time, it’s incredibly difficult to imagine that the way you feel right now isn’t necessarily the way you’re always going to feel.

The best way I can describe that period of my life is that I was at the bottom of a very deep well.

When you’re standing at the bottom of that well, you can’t see much.

The walls surround you. The world becomes very small. And when you look up, the opening at the top can seem impossibly far away.

That’s something I wish more people experiencing depression for the first time understood.

The well lies to you about how deep it is.

It convinces you that where you are right now is where you’ll stay.

It isn’t.

Eventually, somehow, I started climbing.

It wasn’t one dramatic moment. No movie scene made everything suddenly make sense. Little by little, I climbed.

And one day I realized I wasn’t in the well anymore.

I remember how different the world seemed.

The sky looked more blue.

The grass looked more green.

Things I had stopped noticing suddenly seemed vivid again.

And I understood something about myself that I’ve carried with me ever since.

I might stumble again.

I might even fall back into that well from time to time.

But I knew the way out existed.

And because I had found it once, I knew I could find it again.

Twenty-five years later, that knowledge has mattered.

This year I’ve stumbled.

There have been periods of anxiety, depression, and overwhelming stress. There have been days that were much harder than the people around me probably realized.

But there has also been that voice somewhere inside me saying:

You’ve been here before.

You know the sky is still up there.

Keep climbing.

That’s one reason I’m writing this.

Someone reading this may be standing at the bottom of that well for the first time.

You may genuinely believe this is simply what life feels like now.

I can’t promise you when things will change or what your path out will look like. Everyone’s experience is different, and sometimes finding the way out requires asking someone else to help you climb. For me, I did it myself. I had to do it that way to prove something to myself.

But I can tell you something from my own experience.

A world exists outside the well.

And sometimes the sky really does look more blue when you see it again.

My experiences have taught me something else, though, and this part is for all of us.

Be careful with people.

We have absolutely no idea what another human being is carrying.

The person who frustrated you this morning may have spent last night staring at the ceiling because anxiety wouldn’t let them sleep.

The employee who seemed distracted may be trying desperately to hold themselves together.

The business owner who didn’t seem particularly friendly may be wondering how they’ll make payroll.

The person driving too slowly in front of you may have just left a hospital.

The friend who hasn’t returned your text may be using every bit of energy they have just to get through the day.

And the person smiling and joking with you may be having the hardest year of their life.

You simply don’t know.

That’s why the things we say matter.

The things we post matter.

The way we treat the cashier matters.

The comment we make about someone’s appearance matters.

The angry response we type from behind a screen matters.

The joke made at somebody else’s expense matters.

The little piece of cruelty we forget about five minutes later may stay with someone else for five years.

We don’t get to see the weight another person is already carrying when we decide to add a little more.

But the opposite is also true.

Kindness has weight too.

A compliment matters.

A phone call matters.

Asking someone if they’re okay—and actually waiting for the answer—matters.

Giving somebody a little grace on a bad day matters.

Sometimes just sitting beside someone at the bottom of the well for a while matters.

You don’t necessarily have to know how to get them out.

You don’t have to have the perfect words.

Sometimes they simply need to know they’re not down there alone.

I’ve thought a lot about whether I wanted to write this column.

Twenty-five years ago, I probably wouldn’t have.

Today, I think differently.

If talking about my experience makes one person feel less embarrassed about what they’re experiencing, then I’m glad I talked about it.

If it makes one person ask for help, I’m glad I talked about it.

If it makes one person stop before saying something cruel because they realize they don’t know what the person on the receiving end is going through, I’m glad I talked about it.

And if you’re the person standing at the bottom of that well right now, especially if you’ve never been there before, I want you to know something because I know most people don’t understand. Most people don’t understand that you cannot just stop the feeling. Most people don’t understand that you just need to know that you are not the only one feeling this way.

I remember what it looks like from down there.

I remember how impossible the climb can seem.

But I also remember something else.

I remember the day the sky became blue again.

Keep climbing.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, call the Concern Hotline at 540-635-4357