My depression isn’t going away and I’m pissed
And how a new book idea grew from this mess.
I’ve got a new story idea! It’s been, oh, five years since I’ve worked on a novel, so this is Big News.
Ready to hear the idea?
Here goes: a person…deals with a Thing…that won’t leave them alone.
Amazing. Groundbreaking. World changing.
Okay, I admit, it’s a teeny tiny idea right now. As an Enneagram Four, my writing is always about personal exploration and expression, and this one-sentence concept absolutely grew from the messy muck of my current conundrum.
Let me give you the context.
The Inspiration, I Guess
I have recurrent major depressive disorder. I’m on two anti-depressants (plus a few other meds that happen to help with depression), but even so, I get depressed in the spring and the fall.
I’m also 90% sure I have autism and ADHD, which doesn't help the situation. In the fall, my AuDHD brain struggles with the demands of doing a bajillion birthdays and holidays, especially as a mother. So my fall depression can be intense.
I’ve known about my depression since 2021. Getting on meds literally changed my life. (Thanks to my therapist for floating the idea that, maybe, I should try an anti-depressant.) They took me from constant depression to months-long stretches as a “normal” person. Months where I laughed, made doctor’s appointments, cooked dinner, and hung out with my kids.
Since 2021, I’ve been waiting for the depression to just go away. Surely, the multiple medications I’m on will knock this out, right? Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen—you get on an SSRI and aren’t depressed anymore?
But my depression hasn’t gone away. Every year, I’m depressed for two months in the spring and three months in the fall.
This year I realized: My depression isn’t circumstantial and it’s not minor. It’s part of my biology and heredity.
My depression isn’t going away.
And I think that means I have a chronic illness and disability.
Those words are hard. Chronic illness. Disability.
I feel silly saying them. The mean voice in my head still tells me that if I just tried harder, I’d be fine. But I spent most of my life trying really damn hard and never achieved fine.
So I now have to figure out what it means for me to live as someone who can’t function multiple months of the year. I have to figure out what it means that my health and capacity are outside my control.
And this cheery situation is what spawned my book idea.
The Process
It’s a tiny morsel of an idea—a person dealing with a Thing that won’t leave them alone. That’s truly all I’ve got right now.
I’m not ready to dive into outlining or, certainly, drafting. If I tried to write this book now, I’d knock out a scene or two then slam face-first into all the things I don’t know:
What is the Thing, exactly? A storm cloud? An alien presence? A dark power? A parasite?
What is the protagonist facing? Something monumental like saving the world? Probably not. Something every day, like trying to get a job? Maybe. Perhaps somewhere in the middle—a parent trying to get their child the medical care they need?
How does the book end? Not with victory—the Thing isn’t defeated. But I don’t want it to be a tragedy (please don’t let my life be a tragedy!), so what sweetness can I bring to the bitter final note?
What’s the Point?
In the Rooted Writers Mentorship, the first step to writing a book is to identify the point—the message or worldview of the story. What are you trying to say to their reader about how to move through the world? What do you want the reader to come away with?
So what do I want to say about living with chronic illness and disability? I have no fucking idea.
I’m still a big snarl of threads pulled too tight—the realities of my body tug on what I wanted my life to be which wrap around ableist societal messages and run through liberating ideals about everyone having value.
How do you live a good life when your own body isn’t in your control? How can you be a good parent when you can’t be present all the time? What would the world look like if people with chronic illnesses and disabilities had the support they needed? Is depression all bad or is there something good there too—a diamond growing in the darkness?
It is by working on this book that I hope to unknot the snarl and make peace with myself.
As I ponder my plot, character, and worldbuilding, I snip the threads I’m tangled in.
How do I think of my depression? Is it something that attacks me? Something I create myself?
If the Thing was a parasite, what would it do with the energy it siphoned from me?
If depression robs you of energy, agency, and desire, what would it mean for my protagonist to have depression, when agency is so important in western literature? How would I keep the reader engaged with a protagonist who just…can’t? Maybe the depression needs to conceal the real person—they’re still present inside, just not visible from the outside? Is that true to my experience of depression?
These are the thoughts swirling in my head. And, for now, it’s enough.
When I started writing, speed was important. I wanted to bang out the book and hit publish ASAP. Now, I know that the deepest benefit of writing is the process of understanding myself more and the opportunity to make peace with what is.
I may never finish this book—hell, I may never start this book—but by simply exploring the idea, I’m giving myself the opportunity to add some sweetness to the bitter tang of reality.
What about you? Have you ever tried to make sense of your life through a story? Comment and let me know.
P.S. If you write to explore your own questions or the questions of the world, check out the Rooted Writers Mentorship. It's full of people tackling not-so-simple concepts through the lens of story.