Depression

I can't get out of bed even though I desperately try. My head is a dark, remorseful place all but disconnected from a world I now feel I'm looking into from the outside. I need my people, those who understand me and provide the space for me to exist without judgment, an agenda, or expectations. Whatever my lesson is from this lifetime, I am tired of it; I've learned it many times over.

I bury my throbbing head deeper into my pillow. My soul is pleading for salvation, to be taken away from this world into another. I am beyond exhausted. So I pray for forgiveness, for guidance. But the throbbing in my head grows louder and I feel like my brain might erupt. My throat is sore; I struggle to breathe. My heart beats harder; my chest rises sharply. I wheeze and it feels like something is trying to climb out of me.

The feeling of guilt rushes over me, and I surrender to my God. I should be grateful for so many things in my life: my dear children, my mum, my sister, and friends who I know would be distraught if I left them. And so I face the persistent question: what reasons do I have to be unhappy? I feel as though I'm nothing, despite everything I'm proud of, everything I've accomplished. And I feel something worse, that I am the only one who can stop this feeling. I start pleading, begging for forgiveness that despite all that's been given to me — my family, my job, a life that I would never trade — I still feel this way. I plead to be taken home.

Then everything calms down — my heavy breathing ceases, my head stops throbbing, and my heartbeat slows to a steady pace. A sense of peace envelops me. I relax into this renewed clarity. It travels along a dark passage and right there in front of me is my living son's spirit, pure love pouring from his heart in my direction. His love surrounds me, touches me, and comforts me. Our spirits merge and I feel nothing but his sweet, tender love. He heard my cry and came to my aid, my beautiful son. I hang onto this feeling for dear life while I allow my emotions to release — my head and heart start to pound against their confining walls. The throbs reach a deafening crescendo. I struggle to breathe again as I hang onto my loving son's spirit.

Then my mind travels to my daughter. I feel her pain and panic. I enter into her spirit but I can't stay there for long. She is too distressed — I get the message. She loves me, I know that, and she needs me here with her right now. So does my son. A voice: "Now is not the time to give up." These visions prove to be just enough for me to continue.

So I get up, slowly but willingly wiping my tears and putting my feel-good practices into play. I play my uplifting spiritual music: "How Awesome is our God" followed by "Optimistic" and "Rise Up," which I play again and again and again. I fall on my knees, dazed, and I pray for strength and guidance: how, God, am I supposed to put any of this to good use? What now? Why am I here?

The tears keep flowing as I get dressed. I will myself to the gym, plug into my gospel music and work out like crazy, stimulating the endorphins to kick in quickly. This is hard work. The counter-chatter to my negative thoughts is working hard to be heard. I also hear my mum's voice telling me to "get on with it, keep it moving, so I do, but I feel invisible; I'm mindlessly existing, going through the motions of life. I leave the gym with as little energy as when I arrived and I drive home.

I see a large object in the middle of my lane on the freeway. I swerve to avoid it, into what I think is a clear left lane, but it isn't clear; in a split second an SUV is right there, enormous in my mirrors. Before I know what's happened I'm back in my lane and the SUV has sped past me, so close I feel the breeze brush my face even though the windows are rolled up. At that moment of somehow avoiding collision, all my fears release: I realize I am protected. I hear another message very clearly. "You're not going anywhere yet–you have work to do here." I am stunned — and grateful. It shakes me out of myself and jolts me back into existence. My heart is racing so fast and I feel immense appreciation for life–my life.

Part I The Personal

For as long as I can remember I have existed more inside my head than outside it. Thinking, wishing, dreaming to be in a different place, somewhere I could feel like I belonged. And with this feeling of displacement naturally comes one of isolation, of sadness; I felt separate from the same people from whom I desperately sought acceptance. Consequently, I withdrew at a very young age so that I simply existed: I did what was expected of me, and little more. I had experiences in my youth, education, and career that deeply hurt my feelings and damaged my self-esteem. In most cases, instead of expressing my reactions, I kept them to myself because of a belief that such things must remain hidden from view. I have a name for this cycle of withdrawal, now: My Depression. And I offer this account of my early life experiences and background to set the tone for the evolution of my thinking about My Depression, spirituality, and the science that supports a spiritual approach to manage My Depression.

Origins

My mother and father were hardworking people from the Caribbean islands of St. Lucia and Jamaica, respectively. They were part of a mass migration in the 1950s and '60s, after many of the Caribbean people who had assisted Britain during World War II had returned home. As part of the British Empire, many Caribbean people joined the British Royal Air Force (RAF) during the war to make up for the shortage of RAF pilots, returning to the Caribbean after the war. Then, in June 1948 the Empire Windrush boat docked in England with hundreds of people from the Caribbean who sought a new life in Great Britain.

My mother, Rose Elliott, arrived alone in the UK in the 1960s at the tender age of nineteen. Like other black immigrants, my parents often faced hostility and blatant racism from the British. While the British embraced the Caribbean people during the Second World War, they resented them seeking to work and live in Great Britain in the years that followed the conflict. Racism was a new and shocking experience for my mother, who never expected or understood why people treated her badly in a place that had portrayed itself as an ally to the Caribbean people. "No dogs, no blacks, no Irish," read signs my parents often saw in the windows of rental housing accommodations.

My mother met my father, Eric Samuel Headlam, a tall man from Kingston, Jamaica, shortly after her arrival in Great Britain. They married and had three daughters and a son. My parents worked tirelessly to provide for our family. They lived in a challenging rental accommodation before purchasing a home in a predominantly white neighborhood in Croydon Surrey. It was here in this small three-bedroom townhouse where I was raised with my two sisters. I don't have much recollection of my early years, but I do remember...