Tag: depression

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Depressed people don’t want a comparison to your pain!

Dark image for Art Gallery About Bert.ForSale. Photo Melanie Wassera @ Unsplash

Sometimes when I, as a person with depression, share with neurotypical people, they immediately begin comparing their experiences to mine. Little do they know that these comparisons belittle my experience, as if saying “it’s not that bad. All you need to do is cheer up!” It’s excruciating, and that’s what prompted me to record these thoughts this morning. My four minute rant is here:

When people ask me how I’m doing, I make a conscious choice to be honest. I don’t fall back on the easy answers like “fine” or “great.” But this truthfulness, while authentic, often leads to an uncomfortable situation I’ve observed time and time again. Instead of receiving understanding or empathy, I frequently encounter responses where people try to draw parallels between my experiences and their own struggles.

Let me be clear: when I share how I’m feeling, I’m not trying to engage in some kind of competition about who can “tough it out” more. It’s particularly frustrating when these comparative responses implicitly suggest that my struggles aren’t significant enough to warrant concern, or that I should simply “get over it.” I encounter this dismissive attitude frequently, and I’m really sick of it.

The thing about mental health struggles is that they’re deeply personal. Each of us is essentially our own “biological chemistry set,” with unique biochemistry that shapes how we process and experience life events. This individuality means that even shared experiences can be fundamentally different for each person involved. When someone is walking beside me through the exact same situation, their experience will still be different from mine because we are different people.

What makes these comparative responses so problematic is that they completely miss the point. When I’m sharing my struggles with depression, I’m not trying to establish a hierarchy of suffering or prove my resilience. I’m simply expressing my current reality, usually because someone asked me directly about my well being.

I want to be clear: I’m not suggesting that depression is inherently more challenging than other life difficulties. That’s not my point at all. What I’m saying is that each person’s experiences are unique and valid on their own terms. The practice of comparing hardships serves no constructive purpose and can actually be harmful to someone who is already struggling with depression.

This has become such a pet peeve for me, especially as someone dealing with depression. I’m not asking for special treatment or claiming superior suffering; I’m simply requesting that my experiences be heard and acknowledged without being immediately compared to someone else’s challenges. Don’t look at me with that “how about that?” expression when I’m honest about how I’m feeling.

What we need when sharing our struggles with depression isn’t a comparison or a reminder that others also face difficulties. We need simple acknowledgment and validation of our experience. The most supportive response is often just listening without trying to draw parallels to your own experiences, recognizing that each person’s journey with mental health is uniquely their own.

I recorded this because I need to get it off my chest. It’s not about proving who has it worse, or who can handle more. It’s about being able to share honestly when someone asks how we’re doing, without having our experiences immediately compared or dismissed. Because when you’re feeling like shit, the last thing you need is someone telling you, directly or indirectly, that your feelings aren’t valid enough to stand on their own.

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Living with Depression: A Raw Year-End Reflection on Mental Health

"Funeral Brain" Mental Health Artwork about Depression

Building with sign asking "how are you really?" Photo by Mitch on Unsplash
“How are you really?” Living with Depression.

As 2024 draws to a close, I find myself in a starkly different place than where I began, both mentally and physically.

The contrast is jarring – like comparing two different lives, two different selves, separated by twelve months of persistent struggle.

Today, like so many days before it, I’m engulfed in a major depressive episode. The intensity is particularly acute, with the familiar yet dreaded trinity of symptoms making their presence known: dissociation that makes the world feel like a badly tuned television channel, ideation that whispers dark thoughts I’d rather not hear, and anhedonia that strips away any possibility of joy or pleasure. These unwelcome companions have become as familiar as old friends, though they bring nothing but heaviness.

As time passes, I’ve become increasingly aware of the profound disconnect between how depression is perceived by others and its stark reality. There’s a pervasive misconception that depression is merely a temporary state of sadness, something that can be overcome with a good night’s sleep or a pleasant distraction. If only it were that simple. Depression isn’t a cloud that passes over the sun – it’s more like living in a world where the sun has forgotten where the Earth is.

The notion of creating an end-of-year video has been weighing on my mind too. It’s the kind of project that should feel manageable, even meaningful – a way to document this challenging chapter of life. Yet the mere thought of it feels like trying to scale a mountain with legs made of lead. I’ve spent the entire day pushing against emotional numbness, searching for a feeling, any feeling, beyond this perpetual sense of dread. The energy required for such an endeavor has been completely consumed by the basic tasks of masking and survival.

What many fail to understand is the relentless nature of clinical depression.

It’s not about having “bad days” – it’s about experiencing every single day of the year through a lens of varying symptoms. Some days bring emotional numbness so complete it feels like being wrapped in thick invisible cotton. Others are marked by exhaustion so profound that even breathing feels like an Olympic sport. Then there are days when anxiety joins the mix, creating a cocktail of mental health challenges that would bring the strongest person to their knees.

The symptoms themselves are like unwanted guests who never leave, only changing their seating arrangements. One day might be dominated by the inability to concentrate, while another might feature the complete absence of focus. Sleep either eludes me entirely or becomes an appealing escape I can’t seem to wake from. The weight of existence itself becomes nearly unbearable, yet I continue to carry it, day after day, because what other choice is there? (more on that later)

This year has been a masterclass in endurance, in learning to exist when existence itself feels like too much.

Every accomplishment, no matter how small, has been hard-won against the undertow of depression. Every smile, every moment of connection, every task completed has required strength that most never have to summon.

As this year comes to an end, I find myself not in a place of resolution or triumph, but in a space of raw honesty about the reality of living with persistent, major depressive disorder. It’s not a battle that ends with the calendar year, nor is it something that can be neatly wrapped up in a hopeful bow.

It’s a continuous journey through darkness, punctuated by moments of varying intensity, demanding a resilience that must be renewed with each passing day.

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Start Where You Are

Start where you are.
I could not think of a more fitting title for this inaugural post for this website — the concept resonates deeply with me through the writing and teaching of Pema Chödrön, who has had, and continues to have, a profound impact on all sentient beings.

Too often, one can wait for everything to feel “just right” before starting something meaningful.

People tell themselves they’ll begin when the timing, circumstances, or conditions improve. But that kind of waiting can hold one back from growth, discovery, healing, or all of it combined.

I’ve let fear dictate my life at various points.

Not all the time, but enough to reflect back and know that there were many opportunities missed.

Personally, by letting go of the need for perfection, I’ve found greater peace in the process itself. Sustaining that peace is an ongoing practice, but it’s one I’ve learned to welcome.

A part of my healing process has been creating art. However, I’ve only shared it with a handful of close people—those that know what’s up. My art and designs are deeply personal and reflect snapshots of experiences with mental health challenges — a blend of struggle, inspiration, and the raw humanity.

I have begun a Mental Health Awareness Graphic Series starting with six topics: depression, anxiety, ideation, dissociation, anhedonia, and loneliness.

Each poster is designed to be a starting point for meaningful, and often overdue, conversations.

Depression: A reflection of the weight of darkness and the quiet strength it takes to move through each day. This piece was initially inspired by the TED talk of Andrew Solomon, where I first heard the phrase “I felt a funeral, in my Brain,” by Emily Dickinson. It captured exactly how it feels in my head—a funeral, or an Irish Catholic open casket wake.

Anxiety: Capturing the relentless loops of fear and worry, and the courage it takes to find moments of calm. As a sensitive child, fear about a great many things would rip through my mind, leading to persistent, chronic anxiety that developed into generalized anxiety disorder.

Ideation: Shedding light on intrusive thoughts often kept in the dark, with the hope of breaking stigma. Having first-hand experience with ideation since the age of 16, it’s something that ebbs and flows with my depression. Staying grounded in the grief I’d leave behind has helped me resist its pull.

Dissociation: Exploring the surreal detachment from reality or oneself, and the yearning for connection. I didn’t know what this was called until the COVID-19 pandemic, but dissociation became a daily visitor—detaching me from “collective reality.”

Anhedonia: A glimpse into the absence of joy and love, and the small sparks that remind us of its possibility. This is one of the most challenging experiences I’ve faced, where simple joy feels unreachable, no matter how much willpower you summon.

Loneliness: Expressing the aching sense of isolation and the shared humanity that bridges those gaps. Profound in its impact, this type of loneliness shows up even in public spaces. It carries a belief that one may not be worthy of connection.

These six topics are very personal because I’ve lived them all.

I’m hopeful I can share more of my experience in meaningful ways in the hope of helping at least one person who contends with mental illness in its myriad forms. New posters are already in the works, and I’m excited for this evolving series.

Your feedback and suggestions are welcome. If there’s a theme, feeling, or experience you’d like to share, I’d love to hear from you. Your input may help shape future art, resonating with as many people as possible.

My long-term vision for this art goes beyond creating posters. I want this artwork to spark conversations between the people who own them and those who see them. Imagine someone asking about a poster on your wall and the meaningful dialogue that could follow—about mental health, stigma, connection, or shared experience.

Art has a unique power to speak when words are hard to find.

Through this series, I hope to create not just visual representations of mental health struggles but also tools for fostering connection. Together, we can normalize talking about the challenges that shape us and remind each other that no one has to face them alone.

If you’d like to share your thoughts, ideas, or feedback, know that your voice is always welcome.

Be well,
Bert