Dancing on the edge of the shadows is where I am most comfortable. At the edge of the crowd, almost fitting in but yet somehow apart. The beginnings are always great, but near the middle something goes wrong, and the end is never what I thought it would be. I wander off into the night, alone. Behind me is a wasteland of memories, jumbled and confused. If I go back I get lost. Ahead is uncertainty and doubt. If I go forward I get confused.

I spent 20 some years in a hole, lost to depression. Sometimes it wasn't bad; sometimes it was Hell on Earth. Everything I did was colored by the fact I was sad, and the colors were always dark.

Now I am not depressed, all the time anyway. I have moments, but the moments are exactly that, not a year, or a decade, or my whole adult life. Trying to describe that feeling to someone who doesn't know is an exercise in futility. I have the words to tell you about it, and you hear what I am saying, but you can’t comprehend, as words can’t do it justice. If we could talk with color and sound and a background, maybe, just maybe you would grasp the edge of understanding.

I am not trying to make myself more important, or mysterious. Unless you have been there, you can’t know. Even, I suppose, if you have been there you may not get it, as your there is not my there. I have learned that there are some constants with depression, but the abstracts, the way you feel, the sensations, are different as you and I are different. It has been described as a hole, a ball and chain, an abyss, a well, a small room, darkness, a weight, apathy. All are correct, all have similar color, similar feel, but the execution is different in every case. We all have different mothers.

For me depression was selfish. I cared about others in the abstract, but I was more focused on myself and how awful I was, how miserable my existence was, how my was wasn't  I could make the right noises, parrot phrases, think on my feet to adapt and react to situations. But inside I cared only about my misery.

Medication works, and it works well. If prescribed correctly, if taken properly, if backed up by good care meds can literally change your life. If just taken, haphazardly, with no back up, they work for a while. Then when you feel better, you stop. And fall back down, faster, harder and deeper that where you were before.

I have been the center of attention, and at the same time felt lonelier than I have ever felt. I joined the Army Reserves out of High School. I became an MP, started ROTC, quit ROTC, and got sent to war. In November of 1990 I was activated. December of 1990 I was sent to Saudi Arabia. In April of 1991 I came home after being sent to a hospital in Germany because of a giant lump on my neck. It was removed and was benign. I was a hero in my hometown. I went to schools and spoke. I was the keynote speaker at Grosse Pointe’s 4^th of July parade (their one and only if I recall correctly). My name is on the wall at the War Memorial. I felt like a fraud. I still do to some extent.

What scared me the most was that I would be discovered and denounced. What happened was worse. Everyone just forgot.

So now, 20 some years on… I have gotten help, I am better, and I continue to feel better every day. I am learning to live instead of just exist. I have hurt a lot of people in my depression, and I apologize to you all. Tomorrow is a new day, and I feel better about moving forward into uncertainty and doubt.