A reader adds to the thread of support:
I read the letter you posted from your near-suicidal reader with the requisite amount of horror. And quite frankly, a little bit of guilt as well. Because when he describes the inevitable withdrawal of all his friends I have to admit to and remember the occasional times when I myself have failed to return calls from my own friend who suffers from depression.
My friend's depression isn't as severe as the letter writer's (I hope! Hmmm…) but she does have a chronic and debilitating sadness, that overwhelms her and means that she sees everything in the worst possible light. People who disagree with her in a meeting aren't just engaging in a debate, in her mind they are validating her belief that she is worthless. With every decision she makes means she grieves for the lost alternative instead of seeing any value in the path she's chosen. The slightest setback will devastate her for days, and sometimes when I spend time with her I watch her visibly struggling even to lift her head up for conversation or to come up with any sort of response to my questions. When she's at her worst, just being around her is actually tortuous. I completely understand how people like the letter writer can wind up sinking out of society altogether.
But my friend has one advantage. Somehow or other, she acquired the routine of self help. She goes to therapy, but more importantly she doesn't allow herself to lose touch with her friends – she consciously seeks them out. She calls often, she issues invitations, she makes plans. And I make a conscious effort to say yes to these invites, to try draw her out, to wait for the rare moments when she becomes the wry, smart, kind-hearted woman who is my friend. It's quite painful to watch, but her effort to pull herself together – even when (as is often the case) she can't see how unreasonably bleak her view of the world is – I find to be brave and inspiring. Like watching a paraplegic determined to walk.
I can't offer any direct hope to the letter writer – it would be glib and unfair to pretend I know better than him about his suffering. But whether he decides to live or not, I want to know that some of us understand that his ability to get through every day of his life so far has been heroic, and I admire him for it. Maybe he'll never be able to believe in a future from which he can feel better. But he should know that his life today at this very moment is admirable even though, tragically, it is unendurably painful for him.
Another writes:
I feel scared after reading your reader's email. I'm 22 years old, and I have a fairly severe case of depression – I haven't been formally diagnosed, but over the last 3-4 years, the symptoms have grown increasingly obvious to my friends, family and (finally) myself. My case is also made worse by circumstance: due to a Kafkaesque bureaucratic screw-up, I was forced to suspend my college education and return home in 2009, just when the unemployment rate was spiking. As each of my job applications goes unanswered, I have spent the bulk of the last two years sitting at a desk in my childhood bedroom, forced to watch my friends graduate, get jobs, move across the country, and even get married, while I simply wait for my life to resume, and try, somehow, not to feel left behind by the people on whom it depends.
Your readers, Andrew, are a manifestly compassionate demographic compared to the average Netizen. But I'm sure there are some out there who still hear the refrains of the depression victim – "I feel worthless," "I don't belong here," "the people I love would be better off without me" – and think of them as mopey cliches, the discarded lyrics of a Trent Reznor wannabe. I hope these stories will give them an appreciation for how real, how visceral and all-consuming it is to have to hear those words, in your own mental voice, every minute of every day.
Right now, as a result of my dear friends' angelic patience and persistence, I hold out a faint hope that some combination of medication, therapy, lifestyle choices and a well-placed miracle, will get me to the other side of this thing. The idea that, like your reader, I will still be crawling at the walls of this sunless pit when I'm 35 years old is almost too much to bear. I cannot dwell on that possibility, because I know that this diseased mind, this person who I don't want to be, can't handle it. If a qualified doctor told me tomorrow that I had no chance of relief, I would be strongly inclined to end my life.
Which brings me to the topic at hand. I believe in the right to die. I don't believe the institution of government has any place telling a human being what manner of death is acceptable for him; the fact that the rest of us may be uncomfortable with someone's choice is simply a part of living in a free society. But legislation is not our only way of exercising social agency. It may not be the place of Congress to regulate death. But it's sure as hell the cultural responsibility of a place like America, a country which grounds itself in inalienable principles and cherishes the concept of a national identity, to express our commitment to the value, the joy, the sheer reverence of life. This is a liberal principle, and liberalism – contrary to the Christianist caricature of the godless, nihilistic hedonite – is not about apathy. It's about having love and respect for our neighbors' individual agency, and while it commands us to tolerate each other's foolish decisions, it also compels us to engage them, to reach out, before tragedy becomes inescapable.
We need you – your reader, myself, and millions of others. Yes, we have the sacred right to make this decision, but please, no matter what we decide, don't let us decide alone. I don't want to think that I am supposed to die, but if all I receive from my community is the cold sanction of suicide, I know that there won't be much to stop me. On behalf of everyone fighting this permanent civil war against himself, I need to know – whether you are a close friend or a complete stranger – that as my companion on this Earth, you are never out of reach.
Another:
Us depressed people need an "It Gets Better" campaign ourselves. I'm gay, too, after all, and it's easy to tell gay kids that it gets better; being gay can be incredibly hard, but it's also a beautifully inclusive community. Being depressed doesn't have those advantages; there are tens of millions like you, but there's nothing so isolating as depression. It's a secret otherness, a gross embarrassment you carry with you always.
But it really can get better, and that would be what I'd tell the e-mailer. But sometimes it never seems like it will get better. I hope your commenter can get the help he or she needs, and if there's any way to help in some small way, I'd be happy to hear it.
You probably already have.
The Dish 