"I'm Sorry I'm Sad."

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

“I get it…it’s ok, I understand,” you say.

You don’t really understand, I think to myself, but you acknowledge that it exists, and I’m just grateful for that. I love you.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

“You do what you need to do,” you say. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

I am sorry, because my sadness—my depression, the black curtain, whatever the hell takes over every cell in my body—it robs me of time, of days that could better be spent making snowballs or playing Scrabble or even thinking straight. Hours buckled over with laughter, of shared adventure, of…togetherness. I know I’ll never get these moments back.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

Because it robs you of that too. You are resourceful and productive; you will find other, more solitary things to do. But you recognize that the distance between us, albeit temporary, is necessary. We’ve learned, through trial and error and therapy too, that it is best to step away, that now is not the time to ‘talk things through’. There’s nothing to talk about, other than to acknowledge…this happens.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

You’re not obliged to check in on me, to kiss my forehead when I don’t even raise my head to acknowledge your presence, but you do. And it is an astonishing testament to our love. In those moments, I can’t express how important and reassuring that is to me. But know this: I know I am lucky. We both are.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

I’m sorry because it’s a sunny, warm, spring weekend, and I’d rather be out in the garden picking up a winter’s worth of dog poop and proudly forcing you to witness how many bags I filled. Or instead of having my head under a pillow in a darkened room, we’d spend an hour or so just watching the cardinals and blue jays flit from the hedge to the feeder. Being awestruck. Admiring their birdiness.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

Because despite the truth that most days are darned great, when my episodes hit they announce themselves like migraine auras; depression sneaks in around the edges until the corners curl like pages in a burned book.

I can almost visualize the oncoming storm and all I can do to prepare is hunker down and remember it will pass. Neither medication nor meditation will mitigate it at this point. My depression guffaws in the face of yoga, good vibes only, just breathe, all those hackneyed platitudes. It’s chemical, it’s genetic, it’s physical, and I live with it.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

But I’m grateful that I live and not die with it. Before I learned the extent of my PTSD, and before I was prescribed the right medication, there were times I almost didn’t make it. Times when I came close to ending the pain and confusion by ending my life. I’m sure glad I’m here.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

I know a lot of people say that depression is more than just being sad, that everyone is sad from time to time, and it doesn’t mean they’re depressed.

Sure, I grieve and feel loss and get dismayed and disappointed, but that’s not depression. That’s normal. That’s living.

Melancholy? No, that doesn’t work either. It’s too romanticized…like perhaps I’m pining over a lost love or writing poetry more suited to teenage angst. There’s nothing romantic or pretty about how I feel. Despondent? Certainly, in these moments. Inconsolable? Absolutely. And no one's to blame. There are certainly more descriptive words to articulate my depression, but ‘sad’ is the easiest way to explain my state of mind. For those around me, it’s a code word that takes its gravity from the way in which it is spoken.

I’m not by nature an unhappy or miserable person—I’m just the opposite. I find joy in seemingly inconsequential moments. I see beauty where others dare to tread. I love to laugh. I love…to love. But I have a mood disorder, a mental illness that, for chemical and biological reasons, is an integral part of my life.

“I’m sorry I’m sad.”

But if these episodes go hand in hand with the beauty and awe that make my heart full, then so be it. Perhaps I’m embracing them because I know that they’ll pass and that this much is true. It's me. This is part of who I am. And I’m certainly not sorry for being truly me.