Functional Depression

When I was first suicidal, I seemed fine. No, really, I seemed better than fine. People would tell me I was an inspiration. I was their hero. I woke up every morning and I trained for an Ironman. I signed up for it nine days after my daughter died. I never missed a day of exercise. In fact, sometimes I did two workouts a day. Because that was the only way for me to get enough endorphins to make it through the day. I cooked hot breakfast for my kids. I made dinner for them every night. I did my volunteer church work. I did birthday parties and family events.

And I was dying inside. I woke up every day wishing I was dead. I spent all day every day wishing I was dead. I don’t know if there’s a good kind of depression, but if there is, I don’t think it’s this kind of depression. It’s possible that doing too much caused my depression, but I’ve heard people say that it’s better to do something, anything, than just sit around and be sad all day. I guess I believed that because that’s what I did. I kept adding new things to my list. One hundred percent whole foods vegan cooking — to keep any of my other kids from dying. More devoted church work. More homework and family time. More and more and more.

From the outside, it looked like I was doing the impossible. It looked like I was zooming past grief and living my best life. There were a handful of people who knew the truth, one who guessed it from…