The word disorder never sat well with me. What do you mean I have a mental dis-order? Since reading Dante’s Inferno, I’ve never liked the term because of how Dante describes walking up to the City of Dis:

“We moved toward the city, secure in our holy cause, and beheld such a fortress. And on every hand I saw a great plain of woe and cruel torment. Bitter tombs were scattered with flame made to glow all over, hotter than iron need be for any craft. And such dire laments issued forth as come only from those who are truly wretched, suffering and forever lost!” 

Within the walls of Dis, those who followed other religions other than Christianity were tormented for their belief in false gods. Dante put those that lived different lives in hell purely because they were different. It was a powerful message to anyone on the fence about Christianity in the 14th century - get on board or risk eternal residency in the City of Dis.

In effect, it is not worth it to be different.

“Disorder” does not sit well with me because I know the history of where the start of that word derives. It presupposes a problem that has permanent consequences, and, far worse, it attaches an unnecessary societal stigma to a fact of a person’s life which that person did not choose.

My brain is not disordered, but it is different because of how I developed. It is as complex as any other brain in any one else’s skull, and I spent the majority of my adolescence learning the wrong lessons in response to an illness I did not know that I had. Much of the therapy that I am currently engaged in is meant to help me recognize that I lessons I learned in my youth actually hurt me in the long-term.

Having a bad day? Stay under the covers!

Anxious? Find a place to hide!

Scared about the thoughts I’m having? Tell no one!

When I was young, I didn’t know that I had depression. I didn’t even know what depression was a thing. All I knew was that I was a terrible person, and that I didn’t measure up to my peers. I found a few things I was passionate about, martial arts and reading, and poured myself into those pursuits; I lost myself in training hard and in fantasy worlds, where I felt safe and secure. Those were positive lessons that helped me adapt to my mental illness. The trouble was, I learned far more maladaptive lessons just to be able to survive another day.

Two of the worst ones are my tendencies to isolate and blame myself. When I was in high school, I had what I refer to as “my little black ball.” This was a container that sat in my sternum in which I poured every awful thought and painful emotion. It was a voracious beast, and, over time, it grew in density until if felt as if I had the weight of a neutron star permanently affixed to my chest. You cannot imagine how hard it was for me to walk with that weight, but I managed because the thought of telling anyone how I felt terrified me. No one could know what I was going through, and the weight grew until I became accustomed to it.

Today, I do not have “my little black ball”. It took a great deal of therapy to dissolve that sucker, but I have not yet overcome my initial inclination to hide and burden myself when I feel depressed. That is the next big step in my permanent recovery. I need to be able to reach out when I reach a point where the weight becomes unbearable, but, like a 14th century English peasant, I do not feel comfortable admitting a difference. Lest it cost me some societal standing.

I went public with my story in Lacrosse Magazine, to fire a broadside against my isolationist tendencies. Since going public, I’ve had the privilege of speaking with parents, coaches, and young people about their concerns with living with a mental illness. Some are people I’ve known all my life that finally feel okay with admitting that they feel different, and they credit my article with giving them the impetus to come forward.

I’m deeply grateful when I hear stories like that, and then equally concerned when I hear that a child of a friend has taken a downturn and does not feel capable of recovering.

Maybe it’s a medication issue (which I’ve run into plenty), or a life issue (which we’ve all run into), but the individual is particularly disappointed in themselves and doesn’t believe that better days could possibly be on the horizon. Consider my December mood calendar report:

I had “meh” days on the 25th and the 31st. Attributed to the holiday stress, but that could just as easily be stress about work, some deadline, starting something new, or moving to someplace new.

What I find most strange when looking back on this calendar is that I felt like my down mood would persist for eternity (another maladaptive lesson), when in fact, my mood was low for a finite period of time. Compared to the other twenty-nine days of the month: I had fourteen days where I felt pretty good and another fifteen days where I felt exceptional. Really, how dare those two low days make me feel like the entire month was rotten!

But that is what mental illness, particularly depression, does to the mind. I spent five years without any treatment just trying to survive. Learning lessons that kept me alive, but didn’t make life worth living. Then I spent the next ten years learning better ways to live, while still struggling with the ingrained lessons that I established as a younger man.

Just yesterday I felt like a failure in every aspect of my life. I was living in the City of Dis in my own mind. Burning with the understanding that this was what the rest of my existence would be. Unending torment simply for being different.

Today, I had a great conversation with my father. I read a fantasy book while enjoying a latte. Currently, I feel capable of renovating my Dis-ordered mind. If I must live in a fiery hellscape, then it is on me to make my place more fire-retardant by recruiting people to help me when I need it.