I’ve written here before about the folks who believe that there’s no such thing as depression. They tell us - or at least imply - that it’s a choice we’re making out of fear and weakness. and that we can choose instead to get our act together and deal with the hard stuff in life like everyone else.

Some people with depression can dismiss remarks like that: “They just don’t get it. They think I can snap out of this illness whenever I want. They don’t know that depression is an illness and requires treatment like any other.” I used to say things like that too. The trouble is that I didn’t always believe them.

Too often, I used to be stung by those remarks because I believed deep down, despite knowing better, that this claim about depression as a choice was true. I shared the contempt of the people who “just don’t get it.” I could easily accept the idea that my depression was a fake, that I ought to be able to snap out of it. I’d tell myself that I’m hiding, I’m a coward, I’m running from life.

I stamped myself with the stigma, the stain, of being weak and worthless, of wanting to escape by choosing to shut down. I knew that thinking so negatively was a mark of depression itself, but that didn’t matter when I was down. It’s hard to imagine now the self-hate and contempt I could feel.

But even while condemning myself for not choosing to get out of depression, I also believed that I had no choice, that the illness prevented me from doing anything by robbing me of willpower and energy. So I gave myself a double punch: both trapped as the helpless victim of depression and worthless for not snapping out of it.

I capped off those beliefs with one more - that any therapy I did try wouldn’t work.

If medication helped for a while, my body would adapt to it eventually, and it would lose effectiveness. If I felt good after a therapy session, I’d forget before long whatever I’d felt good about and be right back where I started. Coming back from a run or a long walk, I’d be ready for anything - until a couple of hours later. The same with yoga and eating right and meditation. Nothing would work, it was all hopeless. Why should I try?

In doing all those things, however, I was at least taking action. I had choices, a lot of them, and I could make them. But I ignored that reality because I didn’t believe these choices were mine. I was going along with the recommended therapies and believed it was up to each treatment to stop depression, not up to me. No surprise then when, in fact, none of them worked. I got to a point where there seemed to be no more options.

Then I started to feel hopeless, desperate. Nothing could cure me. Those were the rock bottom moments.

What choices were left? Become even more passive by checking into a hospital? That sounded so restful in one of my fantasies. Someone else would take over, and I could just stay there. While driving to work some mornings I often thought about turning off toward this make-believe hospital instead. But what would really happen there? Meds, therapy, group activities - I wanted escape, not more of the same old thing.