Chapter 20: How to Help

You know how in late summer, when you are just trying to relax and minding your own business—then a fly lands on your nose? Somehow, it finds you and it won’t go away. It tickles your nose, and when you shoo it away, you think it’s gone, but it’s not. Like a rubber ball on a string it keeps coming back. On your cheek … on your arm … in your hair.

You try to ignore it, but you can’t. You can barely detect its tiny little legs, but your attention keeps getting diverted anyway. Those minuscule vibrations on your body hair and skin compound on each other until you can think of nothing else. You shoo. You swat. You flail. You readjust your body position or dart into another room to avoid that fly. Nevertheless, it seems once that fly finds you it won’t leave you alone. That rubber ball on the string keeps snapping back at you. You start to feel phantom tickling all over your body. You start to sense that fly, even when it’s not there. It’s on your arm … no, your ear … your shoe …Is it on my face again? … Are there two flies now?

That fly carries disease. Flies are the adult form of maggots that grow into life feeding on rotting excrement. Now, they are dancing on your lips. You shudder at the thought. Flick them off. Wash your hands. Wash your face. Cover your face. Turn off the lights. But the fly returns—again and again.

Depression, like that fly, is an irritant that keeps bouncing back in your face.

On a good day—when I’m not wallowing in the pit—I get annoyed, I stand up, I grab a fly swatter, and the fly dies! End of story.

On a bad day, the fly is more than a literal fly. The fly represents every demon in life that is impossible to kill. On a bad day, when I’m “depressed,” the fly triggers a cascade of negativity.

That @*#$% fly!

I hate that @*#$% fly!

I hate my @*#$% life!

It’s not fair! I can’t even relax or try to work without a fly, or another problem.

This always happens! As soon as I try anything, a $#%* fly comes and makes me sick!

Why me?! … Why do the flies love me?! … What’s wrong with me?!

I might as well just give up.

I know I’ll miss. If I try to kill it, I’ll miss. I’m bad at killing flies! I’m bad at everything!

Knowing me … I will kill it, and then I’ll wash up and another one will come anyway. Or I will kill it, and it will be one of those juicy ones that splatters all over … And then I’ll have another mess to clean up … And then I won’t have time to do anything better.

Whatever happens, I know it will make me sick. It will stress me out, and I’ll pull a muscle, or I’ll trip and fall. I always screw it up somehow! I’ll waste even more time! I’ll do something stupid that will cost money I don’t have!

I don’t have enough energy to fail again. I’m better off not trying … I just have to live with it … It sucks, but not trying is better than failing. I can’t handle another failure. I’m too weak.

What difference will it make anyway? It’s not helping anybody but me! It’s always about me! … I’m so selfish! … I have to suffer! I have no other choice! I either suffer with the fly, or if I try to kill it, I suffer worse!

Life is hell! I hate my #*%@$* life! …

I deserve it. I’m so worthless! … What’s the point? If by some miracle I kill it, there will just be another fly anyway!

I’m already mad, and now my bad attitude will drag everyone else down. My relationships are going to get even worse now! It’s too late! … I can’t hide my irritation now, and everyone will take offense no matter what I say. I’ll hurt everyone and ruin their day. I’ve already ruined their lives anyway!

It would be better for everyone if I just weren’t here at all!

I know it doesn’t seem rational. No writer would use that many exclamation points in real life, but in depression, every thought feels intense. Every speculation down the cascade into hell carries an intense emotional charge—and ironically, when every thought is emphasized, no thought is emphasized. When every thought screams, you can’t even really hear any of them, and perhaps more importantly, you can’t hear anything else either.

This explanation is 100% literal. In the pit of depression, I feel exactly this way about actual, literal flies. This explanation is also 100% metaphorical. In the pit of depression, every injustice, imperfection, and inadequacy in life feels like another fly.

When I’m not depressed, I can deal with life’s flies—life’s problems. I attack the challenges and try to make life better. I kill the flies.

When I’m depressed, I can’t kill the fly. I don’t mean I refuse to kill the fly. I don’t mean I don’t want to kill the fly. I mean, I can’t kill the fly. The very act of trying to kill the fly generates an emotional vortex of negativity that sucks every life challenge in and stacks them on top of each other. The very act of trying to think positively and optimistically about killing a real fly only highlights the negative emotions in contrast. The problems mount. Before long, I can think of nothing else—nothing but all the metaphorical flies in life and their annoying, disgusting, disease ridden attraction to me. I become paralyzed, unable to do anything else until the fly dies—but I can’t kill the fly myself. I know everyone else can kill flies easily. I can’t!

If you have not personally suffered severe depression, it seems so trivial to just kill the fly and be done with it. That’s what you don’t understand. We really can’t just kill the fly. You can, yes. It seems like we should be able to do the same.

From where you stand it looks like I won’t do something so easy to help myself—I won’t kill the fly. From where I stand, I can’t kill the fly. No amount of explanation will convince you why we can’t do something that you find so easy. I’m not asking you to understand something you can’t understand. I’m asking you to understand that you don’t understand—that we really do see and feel it differently.

In the middle of depression’s assault on my brain, my brain literally cannot think the way your brain thinks. No matter how much it seems like I should be able to take that simple step and kill the fly, no matter how obvious or rational you and others find it, no matter how emotional, lazy, or overreacting I appear, you can’t help me when you assume the problem feels the same way to me that it feels to you.

To you, the fly is the problem.

To me, the fly is not the problem! The fly is the final straw on a heap of bigger crises that will break the camel’s back if I even try to address it.

The litany of crises I’m trying to juggle is much more weighty and complicated than I can articulate in the moment, and so it appears I cannot even handle a measly fly. It’s not the fly. The fly triggers an emotional maelstrom that draws my ruminations to the weight of everything else that I have been trying to ignore. The emotional leviathan whose back that fly rides dumps it all on me at once.

The weight of that fly is one milligram too much. We have much bigger problems than the fly. Our careers, our relationships, our finances, our health, and our faith are all screwed up. We don’t know how to fix them. We’ve tried and failed, and been left hopeless. If I try to kill that fly and fail again—if I can’t even do something as simple as swat a fly—I risk pushing my emotional triggers past the point of no return. I’d rather suffer in a selfish bubble of fly tickling annoyance, believing that killing the fly is still possible, than fail at the most menial of tasks and remove the last faint flicker of hope that I have any control at all.

I realize you have those life problems too. The difference is your brain manages it differently. Something in my body, or hormones, or brain is broken!

It’s not about the fly.

It’s about me.

My problem is not the fly.

My problem is me.

Killing the fly won’t fix me!

I am broken and worthless … so why even try to kill the fly?

That’s stupid. That’s illogical. That makes no sense.

True. My logic is completely preposterous, but it’s also completely real. The worst thing you can do is try to explain to me how stupid it is, and how irrational it is, and how imaginary it is. It’s not imaginary! The feelings are imaginary to you, and when you fail to understand that my perception differs from yours, you are not actually helping. You are making the problem worse.

To a depressed person, their own logic, no matter how flawed on the outside, is very real on the inside. Their logic must work around a whirlwind of emotions that you cannot see. They cannot adequately express those emotions to you when you haven’t felt them, don’t understand them, or belittle them. Nevertheless, their fears are justified. If you could understand the emotions, which attack them involuntary, you would see how their logic makes sense. Their actions or inactions are based on real life experience. They are protecting themselves from the environment. They are protecting themselves from others. They are protecting themselves from themselves. Yes, there are real factors on the outside that their misguided reasoning doesn’t properly take into account, but there are also real factors on the inside that your well-intentioned reasoning can’t take into account. If you admit your internal computer reacts differently, you can’t assume you know how their emotions and logic will work.

They are not choosing between a good solution and a bad solution. They are choosing between two bad solutions. Killing the fly is not necessarily the right solution for them just because it’s the most obvious solution to you. Sometimes, the obvious thing really will make it worse for them. That is partly why depression is hell. Killing the fly might actually make their internal emotions worse. Sometimes, all available options bring you closer to a nuclear meltdown. From the inside of depression there is often no right answer. They are not choosing between killing the fly and living with the fly. They are not choosing between eliminating the problem and living with the problem. The depressed mind is choosing between the emotional cocoon of living with the torment of the fly, or risking an emotional catastrophe by trying to kill the fly. No matter what it looks like from the outside, sometimes they really can’t kill the fly for themselves.

How can you help?

Give the Benefit of the Doubt

Stop blaming me for what you don’t understand and start giving me the benefit of the doubt.

If I’m just lazy and making excuses, maybe I do need a good kick in the pants. On the other hand, if it’s actually “depression,” then I’m not actually capable of what you are asking. Knocking me down when I’m already in a hole won’t help.

If your actions prove to me that you don’t understand my reality, I won’t trust you. When I don’t trust you, it doesn’t matter if you are right or wrong; I won’t listen. I don’t have the energy to sort out good advice from patronizing judgment, and I will discount whatever you say.

I’m asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Best-case scenario—I which is probably the truth—I am doing the best I can, even if you can’t see it. By giving me the benefit of the doubt you won’t solve the problem, but you will stop becoming part of the problem.

Worst-case scenario—I really am a loser who isn’t even trying. However, even if I really do need an attitude adjustment to climb out of the pit, I’m not going to climb toward someone who is condescending or pushing me down, I’m going to climb toward someone who believes me.

If you want to help, you have to follow one simple rule—give me the benefit of the doubt.

Guilt tripping me won’t work. I already feel guilty.

If I seem rude, assume it’s not malicious.

If I refuse help, assume I have a good reason.

If I contradict you, don’t argue.

Giving the benefit of the doubt is very simple, but it’s not easy. It’s very hard. Admit you don’t understand me, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, trust that I act with good intentions.

If you can’t give me the benefit of the doubt, leave me alone. I do not have the energy or ability to make you understand. If you won’t believe me, you become part of the problem. You become an irritating fly on a string that I don’t know how to deal with. If you can’t give me the benefit of the doubt, cut that string and leave me alone.

Giving the benefit of the doubt means accepting that it might take a really long time for me to change on my own. You might have to endure my emotional roller coaster for years. It’s not fair to you at all. I really am sorry, but unless you can give me the benefit of the doubt, it will take even longer.

If you can give me the benefit of the doubt, keep reading through the following suggestions that provide more specifics.

Admit You Don’t Understand

Stop expecting an explanation. Why am I mad? Why did I leave? Why am I crying? What was I thinking? What did I mean by that? Sometimes I don’t know. Sometimes I do know, but I can’t explain it to you. Sometimes I do know, but I want to spare your feelings. Sometimes I do know, but I want to avoid your reaction that I know will make me feel worse. Stop expecting an explanation. You can ask for an explanation, but giving me the benefit of the doubt also means accepting no answer as a sufficient answer.

Giving you an explanation is like trying to explain the taste of salt to someone who doesn’t already know, trying to explain color to a blind man, or trying to explain sex to a toddler. The explanation sounds weird. The explanation might be accepted, but it can never be truly understood if you have not experienced it.

Think of your greatest accomplishment. Can anyone else on Earth really understand what you went through? Think of your greatest failure. Can anyone else on Earth really understand the personal nuances of your circumstances? Does anyone else really understand?

Telling me that you know how I feel won’t help. Telling me about your own or others’ suffering is not true understanding! You can only empathize with the depressed version of me if you also share the experience of not being understood. Don’t empathize with the depression. Empathize with the loneliness.

I believe I can say categorically that if you can’t admit that you don’t understand me, then you have never been “depressed” like me. Thinking that you do understand or trying to prove that you can relate, only reinforces to me that you don’t. The more you know what’s best for me, the more you prove to me that you don’t understand me at all.

If you truly know what it means to not be understood—to be truly alone—you would never assume that you understand. I’m just asking you to admit it. You cannot help if I don’t trust you, and I cannot trust you if you don’t admit it. Let’s all say it together, what should be the universal common experience of humanity: “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Believe Me

Giving me the benefit of the doubt means believing me. I know you say you believe in me. Even if that’s true, I don’t just need you to believe IN me; I need you to actually believe me.

If I tell you I can’t kill the fly, believe me.

If I say I’m about to lose it, assume I’m not exaggerating.

If I say I won’t, don’t expect me to try.

If I ask you not to do something, don’t do it.

If I say I hate something, don’t contradict me.

In romantic comedy cliché dialogue, “Don’t tell me how to feel.” Feel free to disagree, but that doesn’t change that I really do believe what I say.

Whatever I say, no matter how bizarre, believe me. You know those irrational things I say when I express strange desires and doubts? I’m trying to explain confusing things that cannot be explained. I’m trying to open up to a friend, and when you dismiss them, contradict them, or don’t believe them, you make it impossible to ask you for help.

Just the other day, I was teetering on the verge of tears. The gaping chasm of emotional freefall was about to open underneath me, and I knew it. I held my external facade together as best I could for as long as I could, and in that least opportune moment, my wife needed “to talk.” I told my wife I didn’t feel well, and couldn’t talk. I told the truth. I did the right thing by trying to prevent the blowout that would happen if I didn’t stop the conversation. Of course, because I had already started slipping into the downward spiral of depression, the words didn’t come out in the most kind way. Nevertheless, it was the kindest explanation I could muster in my emotional state.

When I say “I can’t talk right now,” believe me. Don’t read into it. I’m not saying “I don’t want to talk.” When I say “I can’t talk right now,” I really mean “I can’t talk right now.” When you force the conversation anyway, I will blow up or blow out. It all could be prevented if you actually believed me.

That is why I don’t tell my wife the truth. If I don’t say anything, I get blamed for not saying anything. If I try to explain how I feel and it comes out wrong, I get blamed for how it comes out. Worse, because she doesn’t really understand, if she doesn’t believe what I say, she trusts me less, and I trust her less too. She still feels bad, but I feel worse too. I lose either way—and so does she. If the truth causes more pain than the silence, I will choose silence.

You don’t have to agree with what I say. I’m not asking you to validate anything that’s untrue. You only have to believe me. You have to believe that I sincerely believe what I say. I ask you to believe me, even though I lie to you all the time. I don’t want to lie to you, but I feel like I have to lie, because you don’t believe me when I don’t. It’s easier for you to believe what you want to believe, than to believe what I tell you. You can’t help me if you don’t accept the truth, and I will never tell you the truth if I can’t trust you. If you start believing me, maybe I’ll start telling you the truth.

Stop Trying to Fix It

Maybe the problem really is all in my head. So what. You can’t impose a solution if it’s in my head. You can change the external environment, but you can’t fix what’s in my head. Stop trying! Giving me the benefit of the doubt means not assuming you have the answer.

People who love you find it difficult to admit that they can’t help. I’ve tried over and over to explain to my wife that she can’t help. She doesn’t believe me.

Please understand—you can’t help. You can’t fix the problem. No matter what you think will help, you are wrong, because even the right thing on paper won’t work if I don’t accept it. You can’t help, because “helpfulness” doesn’t depend on you willfully offering the “right” thing. Actual “help” depends on my willfully receiving and accepting the “right” thing.

When my back—and brain—begin to crack under the stress, you might sympathetically, sincerely, lovingly want to remove the straws off the metaphorical camel’s back. Don’t! The very act of inserting yourself into my life, making assumptions about what I need, and encouraging me to follow your suggestions—even if you have good intentions—may make you the final straw that breaks the camel’s back. Even if your help should be appreciated in a rational world, by forcing it on me without my ability to prepare for it, you necessarily add weight to my back before any chance at relief.

Even if you are “right,” you cannot dictate the terms of the “help.” Offering me a ladder out of the pit won’t help if I can’t climb it. I can’t get out of the pit without help, and you can’t help without my ability to climb. Accept the one thing you don’t want to believe; you can’t help—at least not on your own terms.

Don’t impose your time or money or advice. You can offer help, but give me the benefit of the doubt if I refuse.

Ask, or Let Me Ask

Giving me the benefit of the doubt means trusting what I say I need over what you think I need. Don’t give me what I “need,” give me what I ask. Yes, it seems very inefficient. It is. You might be right about what I need, but it will only help if I ask for it.

Years ago, in the middle of my years-long abyss, our dishwasher broke. I, or my wife, or kids, must have mentioned it at church or on social media, or somewhere in passing. Who knows? All I know is that a surprise gift of a new dishwasher showed up at my front porch.

It seemed obvious. Our dishwasher broke and we “needed” a new dishwasher. From the outside, it seemed like a great service to us since we had no income at the time. Some well-meaning person wanted to help—but they didn’t ask! I didn’t ask for a dishwasher, and they didn’t ask if I wanted a dishwasher.

They probably felt great about giving me something I “needed.” I understand if they thought buying the dishwasher was better than handing out cash. I understand that the giver probably thought a low-end dishwasher was better than no dishwasher. I get that they were trying to create the feeling of joy and surprise, but a depressed person doesn’t need the stress of joy and surprise. A depressed person “needs” only what they are prepared to receive, not what you are prepared to give.

That dishwasher surprise sent me spiraling into the pit. I could not handle the stress of a new dishwasher that I didn’t ask for. My routine had already incorporated hand washing the dishes, and I had much bigger financial problems and much more pressing financial needs at the time. The broken dishwasher was not even close to my biggest stress. If they really wanted to help, my kids needed clothes more than they needed self-cleaning dishes. The dishwasher gift only proved to me that the anonymous giver didn’t actually know anything about my real problems. I felt like they wasted hundreds of dollars on a gift, when if they had just asked, something else would have helped more. It felt like they cared more about giving a gift to feel good about themselves, than actually helping me. The gift forced me to focus on the installation, and changing the routine, and trying to have a good attitude about an appliance that I would never choose for myself, instead of focusing on my real problems. I resented the gift, because it felt uncaring and refocused my attention on other triggers.

Because it was a low end dishwasher, it broke very quickly, and we couldn’t even get it repaired. The gift of a dishwasher was actually the gift of stress—stress of resentment, stress of the installation, stress of misguided priorities, stress of the breakdown, and still no working dishwasher. More stress is the last thing you should give a depressed person. I blamed the anonymous giver for making my life harder. When depressed, I feel loathing whether it makes sense or not. I can be grateful for their helpful intentions, and still more miserable and resentful because of it. If they had asked, I would have preferred any amount of cash, no matter how small, over which I could maintain control. Depression makes you feel out of control, and having no control over the dishwasher only made the depression worse.

I realize my wife and kids actually appreciated the dishwasher, while it worked. That’s not a good reason not to ask me first. Just because their concerns are valid doesn’t mean mine are not. If I had been asked, I would have at least had the opportunity to discuss it with my wife first, and felt at least some control.

I’m not saying don’t give gifts. Other depressed people might not resent the gift the same as I did. My point is that you can’t assume you are helping unless you ask, or I ask. Don’t ask me “How are you?” or I might say, “Not good, my dishwasher broke,” and you might assume I want a new dishwasher.

Rather, ask me “What can I do to help?” I might not let you help if you ask. I might say nothing. But eventually, if you trust me enough to allow me to make my own decisions—if you give me the benefit of the doubt—I will tell you what to do.

Depending on the person, it may be more hugs, or less. It may be more encouragement and more service, or less. It may be more social time and activity, or less. It may be more money and more gifts, or less. It may be conversation, or distraction, or silence—or nothing.

You’ll never know unless I tell you—and you believe the answer. Don’t assume. Ask me, or let me ask you.

Mirroring

Giving the benefit of the doubt means validating my depression rather than trying to change it. One simple rule of human relations applies to almost every emotion. People want to share their feelings. If the cheesecake tastes amazing, I want those that I love to experience the same ecstasy. When we eat, or dance, or make love, we want to share the feeling with others. When others whisper, I whisper. When they yawn, I yawn. When I laugh, I don’t want to laugh alone. I want everyone to laugh—and the more everyone laughs, the more I enjoy the humor.

However, it works both ways. When someone hurts you, you secretly wish they would be hurt—even if you don’t reciprocate publicly. When someone yells at you in anger, you want to yell too. At least you feel the anger too, even if you don’t show it. Likewise, when you feel depressed, you want others to feel depressed.

Miserable people want others to share their misery. “Misery loves company,” as they say. Wanting others to share your misery makes depression even harder. Rationally, you want others to be happy and live their best lives, but when you feel miserable, you can’t help but want other to share the misery. At best, you at least want others to understand the misery so that you are not alone.

You wouldn’t brag about dancing, to a friend whose recent accident confined her to a wheelchair. You wouldn’t even hint that a paraplegic should try to stand. You wouldn’t flaunt your money in front of a child in poverty. You wouldn’t gloat about the cheesecake in front of someone on a feeding tube. That would be cruel.

Yet for some reason, when I am depressed, you try to cheer me up. You try to make me happy. You try to be fun. You try to make me laugh. You try to be optimistic. You show off the very thing I can’t have and expect it to make me feel better. I no longer have positive thoughts to stand on, and you are trying to force me to stand.

You are assuming I can stand on a positive attitude just by changing my mind. You are assuming I can stand on a broken leg. I can’t. I might play along and pretend—but really, all you are doing is proving to me that you don’t understand. When I am exhausted, hopeless, and crying, I don’t need you to be full of energy, smiles, and optimism. I need you to cry.

I can’t count the number of times I have had to leave a room because the people in that room were too happy. It is less miserable to dwell with the damned souls in hell than to share heaven with the angels when you cannot also share the angels’ joy.

Meet me where I am, not where you want me to be. It is called mirroring. You talk the speed I talk. If I am monotone, you are monotone. If I lack energy, you should lack energy.

If you listened to this book’s script as an audiobook, you might have found it dull and monotone. Typically, authors hire voice actors who can dramatize their writing and make the audio more engaging. I’m intentionally avoiding excess drama, because people in the middle of depression don’t feel that way. They don’t want me to pretend to be happy. If I tried to read this script with more expression, it might sound better to you, but to someone who was depressed it would sound fake. When you can’t feel the joy, it’s hard to believe that those who do aren’t faking it.

Real joy would be an act for me, so how can it be real for you?

Yes, you can cheer me up. You can try to get me to laugh, and you can be optimistic, but not if you don’t meet me where I am first. You can’t take me from zero to ten. You first have to take me from zero to one.

Mirror my perception, not yours.

Kill Flies

You cannot do anything to change my insides. You can, however, change the environment outside.

You can kill flies!

You might not understand why it’s so hard for me to kill the fly myself. You might not understand why I won’t get a job, go to church, hang out with friends, visit your mother, clean the house, or give you the attention you deserve and ask for. You might not understand why I say I can’t or won’t do something—or even try. You might resent doing for me what I should do for myself.

Nevertheless, giving me the benefit of the doubt means doing for me what I won’t or can’t do for myself. If the fly weighs me down, irritates me, or creates an overreaction in me—kill the fly for me, please! As long as I ask, or you ask and I agree, kill the fly!

When I hit rock bottom, my wife had to get more schooling and get a new career to provide the support for our family that I failed to provide. She didn’t do it out of some charitable mercy on me. She did it out of necessity, and probably with plenty of resentment toward me. She started supporting me financially. She had to abandon life as she knew it. She had to give up time with the children. She had to accept a certain amount of chaos in parts of her life. She had to sacrifice a lot of physical and emotional pleasure—all because I wouldn’t do it.

On top of all my other problems, the need to provide financial support for the family was such an enormous weight on my back that I could not even lift a finger to kill a fly for myself. Neither of us really understood that, but by removing such an immense burden from me, it actually allowed my mind to be freed just enough that I could start climbing out of the pit.

You cannot pull me out of a pit that is all in my head, but you can remove irritations and burdens on the outside that will make it easier for me to climb for myself. If you can do something huge like take care of my job, or finances, or children, physical health, or security—and I agree—then that huge relief of burden helps more than any psychological coping mechanism.

On the other hand, if you have no way to do more than kill a literal fly that irritates me, kill the fly. That fly—that irritation, that trigger—stops me from seeing reality as you see it. That fly forces me to concentrate on my selfish little bubble of pain, and until that fly dies I won’t even be able to see the ladder out of the pit, even if you’re telling me all about it. If that’s all you can do, please kill the fly.

Remove the weight from my shoulder a little bit here and a little bit there, until I can breathe well enough that I’m no longer drowning. Take a little more responsibility on yourself to lessen the burden on me.

No, it’s not fair! I’m seemingly asking you to enable my bad behavior. You deserve the respect, not me. I should give the sacrifice to you, not the other way around. I’m asking you to give me the benefit of the doubt when I don’t deserve it, even when I am in the wrong.

All of that is true. I know I’m asking the impossible. If you would rather just walk away and leave me alone, I totally understand. I’m not telling you what I deserve. I’m telling you what I need. If you want to help, I’m telling you how. Every metaphorical and literal fly you assassinate for me, no matter how small, takes weight off my shoulders and helps me not dwell on the hopelessness.

As long as I ask, or you ask and I agree, kill flies.

Only one person in my life followed these rules—my father. I suspect that those who know him would never suspect he was actually my biggest help. As I climbed ever so gradually out of depression’s pit, he had a fall in his old age from which he would never recover. He lived just long enough, and with enough mental clarity, for everyone to have time with him and say goodbye. I only wanted to tell him one thing.

Over the years, he knew something was wrong with my health, but he didn’t understand. He knew I asked for help more than he thought I should, and he didn’t understand. He knew I changed my faith, refused work, and declined opportunities that he would have accepted. Nevertheless, he didn’t try to fix me. Honestly, knowing him, even I was shocked at how little he judged me for acting in ways he didn’t understand. Instead, he believed me, and killed flies for me when I asked for help. He was the only person who acted that way. Before he passed, I only had one thing to say. “Dad, thank you for always giving me the benefit of the doubt.” He appreciated that I noticed, and acknowledged that he did, in fact, not understand my perspective. He confessed that he did, in fact, give me the benefit of the doubt—on purpose.

I ask you to do the same for anyone you know who suffers in depression’s grasp.

For whatever it’s worth, thank you.