The Most Dangerous Kind of Depression Doesn’t Look Like Depression at All

You show up. You perform. You smile. And because of that, no one—including you—realizes how much energy it takes just to keep going.

Even though I am retired, I still spend time each day looking at my email.

Often, someone is up before I am, so I am either making coffee or pouring myself a mug. While I don’t have a real calendar, I often make up a short to-do list on the back of an envelope before going to bed. This leaves nothing unusual or dramatic occurring as I head for bed.

If you had looked at me from the outside, you would’ve seen someone starting a normal day, maybe even a productive one.

And yet, there it was again. That feeling I’ve been trying to explain… without really having the words for it. It’s that feeling of making sure nobody thinks I am not giving my all. There is technically nothing wrong.

When I look a little closer, this feeling doesn’t look like depression.

At least, not the kind most people recognize. Every day, I am not staying in bed. I do not miss any appointments. And if I am on time, I feel that I am late. I very much get things done, and this checks all the boxes.

From the outside, this looks like someone doing just fine.

From the inside, it feels more like I’m running a system than living a life. Over time, I have discovered that there’s an enormous difference between the two.

Here’s the part that’s hard to explain.

The better you function, the less anyone questions how you’re actually doing. Because I am productive, everyone assumes that I am OK. And I am reliable, so everyone thinks that I am solid and don’t need anything. Plus, by smiling all the time and maintaining a positive attitude, everyone assumes I am happy.

And after a while, I find myself believing that’s what I am supposed to be doing.

So, I keep going. Not because it makes me feel good. It takes an awful lot of energy to put on this show every day. For me, until this last time (which landed me in the hospital)  I would sweep any leftover crumbs under the rug, and walk away like nothing had happened, And I have found that it is easy to miss my own signs.

It’s not always obvious what is going on.

Sometimes it looks like:

• Being tired, but not the kind of sleep that fixes
• Thinking too much about things that shouldn’t take that much energy.
• Feeling disconnected in moments that should matter
• Pushing off joy like it’s something you’ll get too late, “I’ll enjoy this when I have more time.”
• And this feeling, whatever it is, never goes away.

My depression stays concealed, because I am still getting out of bed and still doing everything I said I would do.

I find myself thinking about my depression and why I cannot bring myself to “tell someone, anyone, that something isn’t quite right.” I find that keeping up the brave face at work makes people think I’m happy, reliable, and oh so productive. There’s also the belief I have that showing my depression would make things harder for me. All of a sudden, the Lucille Ball show pops into my head. “Lucy, you’ve got some splaining to do.”

I carry my depression with me everywhere.

So, my depressive episodes kind of sneak up on me. I don’t see them coming, mostly because I am not looking for them. And I keep myself busy thinking up reasons to go to bed early. Outside of work, I am at least OK. But even there, I need to stay focused on being everything to everyone.

I often tell people that my knowledge is two miles wide and two inches deep.

This means for me that conversations often don‘t get very deep, and are never very long, if I can help it. I find my days kind of blurring together. I realize that key moments are passing me by, and I am not catching them because I am still thinking about how I can get to bed early.

And over time, my life starts to feel more like something I am maintaining rather than something I actually experience.

I think the biggest thing I am finally doing is calling my concealed depression by its name. Concealed depression may sometimes be referred to as High Functioning. As far as I can tell, these two names are the same. When I finally decided that enough was enough, I felt I only had three choices.

1. Take my own life and end
2. Keep doing the same thing while expecting a different result
3. Seek professional medical help

Option number one was too scary, and spoiler alert, I did not choose door #1.

Plus, seeing 100, as George Burns did, would go a long way towards easing my competitive nature. Number two finally stopped making sense. I never even thought about why, and was always thankful when each episode was over. So that only option number three is left.

Walking into the emergency room was the least frightening of the things I had to choose from.

As the day wore on, I found myself advocating for admission. Heck, even the admitting psychiatrist was amazed that I had gotten a bed. He wanted to discuss my employer and had more questions about that than he had about admitting me. I was excited to have three full days to learn all I could about my concealed depression.

Everyone goes at their own pace.

I wish now that I had explored what was happening after high school. Maybe I would have understood my depression earlier, and then helped me make better decisions. Just to be clear, my official diagnosis was Major Depressive Disorder with Suicidal Ideation.

There was a time when I couldn’t say suicide out loud.

Heck, for almost 55 years, I never said the word depression. In my family, someone with depression had a case of nerves. So, I have come a long way in my journey and am glad I can finally say out loud what’s been playing in my head for decades. This was supposed to be a blog post about the definition of Concealed Depression. I am not sure if this helped anyone but me.

I am happy to be on the path to a better understanding of myself and my Concealed Depression.