Getting Better

Written By Lane Bishop

I have little to offer you in the way of wisdom, but I hope hearing my story helps somehow.

 

My name is Lane. I’m 26 years old, living in Fort Worth, Texas, and have been chronically depressed for over 13 years. I’m not sure when it “started” if there even is such a thing. But I have learned through intensive self-evaluation and analysis that I was displaying symptoms at least as early as middle school.

Previously a straight-A student, I suddenly found myself not doing as well as others. With changes like puberty, moving states and losing two of my grandparents to cancer, I didn’t know how to attend to my emotions. I withdrew into myself as I thought all men were expected to do in society. If I wanted to cry, I would wait until I was alone. If I felt frustration or fear, I would distance myself from others, becoming reserved. Otherwise known as ‘shy’. I became tired easily and often, both mentally and physically, and I regularly threw up at night from anxiety attacks.

I felt my value as a person was almost exclusively measured by my level of academic performance in school. Receiving praise from friends and family based on good grades, I had learned as a child that good grades equaled respect and affection for living up to the family name of Bishop. And there I found myself suddenly falling behind in my classes, struggling to understand how to multiply two double-digit numbers and feeling left behind, no longer at the top of the class where I was expected to be. Combine this with the usual school-age pressures of fashion, behavior and friend groups, and I began to see myself as unattractive and ‘lesser’. And in this process, I began to scold, bully and hate myself in accordance with how much I felt I was a disappointment to my family and society at the age of 11. The resulting poor attitude I formed however (easily attributed solely to puberty) caused trouble with my friends and family, so I learned how to fake happiness and normal emotions around others because it was so much easier than explaining myself every time. It was a mask I wore every day, and I wore it well.

School then began to transition from something I did for fun to a chore I only engaged in because I was told to and to avoid confrontation and scolding from my parents and teachers. Grades, extracurriculars and work were thus used purely as a means to add lines to a resume. I saw no value otherwise in school, and I saw no value in myself if I didn’t meet their standards. Every day’s motto became “just go through the motions, get it done, and get out. No time to relax or play games - you’re just wasting time and being lazy.”

It’s worth noting here as well that I don’t blame anyone for this illness, including my parents. They love me and I know that, and I love them. Depression is an aggregate of 10000 origins and no standard solutions. It would be foolish and counterproductive to lay fault to anyone.

By 21 I began to notice patterns in when I would feel “bad”. I saw that for every 3 weeks of feeling depressed, I would have 1 week of relative happiness. However, this was a sort of double-edged sword: I gained insight into how my mental state was behaving and a clue that I was depressed, but it also meant that during the “good” weeks, I would sit in dread in the expectation of what the next weeks would bring. It dulled the happiness. And with time this pattern grew out of my favor: by 22, I would only have 1-2 days a month at most where I wasn’t miserable. I had grown out of suicidal thoughts as a means of resolve, but what remained was just. . . emptiness. A sort of numb idleness. I had lived most of my life in hate, and without it, I didn’t know who I would be. And so the stage of Chaos began to fill the void left by Hate:

‘I’m not where I want to be - I don’t want to do this degree - I don’t like living here - I don’t like this job - But what else could I do? - Photography’s a lost cause - no money - you need a degree - you need a job - you need a house - you need to get a life - and look at you, sitting in your room crying? - Pathetic - Waste - there’s so much to do - Go - Do it all - Get it done - Or are you just a failure? - You are, aren’t you? - a Failure.’

After entering college, I stopped working out and lost interest in sports, further declining my mental health. I felt hopeless. The energy needed to work on myself or even do simple things like homework were more than I had to offer. This prompted a further decline in grades, and created an environment where I felt I didn’t belong (in school or in life), feeding the unrelenting cycle. I was trapped in a hole without means of escape, and no one could hear my internal cries for help. This trend continued throughout college, where over the course of six I would fail six classes, retake five others, and change majors three times without obtaining a bachelor’s degree after dropping out in 2022. Six years of what I viewed as spinning my wheels. Six years of wasting time.

Excerpts from the only notes I’ve made for myself, beginning in college at age 19:

NOTE: Discussion of self-harm and suicide follows
 
 

Jan 11, 2016 (aged 19)

I wanted friends. . . I don’t want a job, to work. My stomach hurts all the time. The pain inside me. Nothing motivates me, pushes me to do anything, or breathe. Do I want to become a statistic? Or is that the right question? The quiet thoughts are beginning to raise their voices. Tears are all I see right now. This FUCKING SUCKS FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU LANE FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. I imagine thrusting a knife into my chest. It feels good, and it releases me. I’m scared of it. I am near worthless. Isn't this weird? A random molecule of oxygen is in this room with me. Simply part of the Universe, no cares or worries, unaware of what it is. Yet it can provide me life. Look at the Earth, the oceans, the mountains, the roads in my city. Following a certain road, you would find my door, leading to my bedroom. And there in my mind is a hell with no oxygen to breath, and I am suffocating. I am dying in silence, and no one sees it. I can’t kill myself though, it would hurt Christina too much. Isn’t that funny? I care more about her in every way than I do myself. I want to put a gun to my temple. I want to show her this message so that she can help. I don't want to go to school. I just want a gun. I hope I'd die the first shot, because I'd be in a loooot of trouble with my parents if I survived. I want to beat my head against the wall until I fall unconscious, and I want to die choking in the sleep that follows. . . I've dealt with this fucking depression for 10 fucking years. Why me? A number of factors probably. Duh. I'm lucky to have Christina. Not all were so fortunate to have someone. Fuck me. I hate myself. FUCK, I wish there was triple caps. I don't know if I would kill myself. The idea of the impact on my parents it would bring? Meh, not really. That sounds heartless, but I don't picture them caring too much. OBVIOUSLY they would, they're fine parents, and I owe them a lot, but the pain. Just the pain. . . Christina's at Baylor currently. It is now 12:27pm on Monday, January 11, 2016.

 
 

Feb 5, 2016 (aged 19)

I just cut myself - and it felt so good. It took the pain away from my head and brought it out. It was a release of a sorts. I want to punch something, anything. As long as it hurts. I want to punch the corner of a table, make it hurt, cut my knuckles open and watch the blood, and feel the pain. Fuck. Christina's currently taking a shower at Baylor, and I'm waiting on her to come back so we can call again. I can't stop pacing, and I'm really shaky. I’m in my boxers now, and I just want to freeze. I want to shiver, and I want to die. I can't hold on to interests like photography, computer games, history, evolution, space, anything. I don't have anyone to enjoy it with (I do have Christina, but I'm not with her enough to benefit). Fuck me. I want a knife to simply run the blade perpendicular to my forearm. This may be just all dehydration talking though. I just wanted to experience friendship. I wanted to hang out with people, laugh, smile, have fun, be carefree, fucking experience life. But I can't now. I have no one. I am alone. I’ve been alone for years now, and I just want friends. Anyone. Christina’s calling.

 
 

Oct 7. 2020 (aged 24)

Today I’m depressed. Self vs. Self once again. What love am I missing. What life am I missing. Just ‘change’, and all will be well. Today I wish for tomorrow, awaiting my turn to pass from this bland uniformity. Tomorrow I will wish for today, craving the nostalgia of opportunities missed.

 
 

Oct 31, 2021 (aged 25)

I’m alright for now. We are taught depression as darkness, sitting in a gray and empty room because we ‘feel bad’. What I feel is emptiness in extremum. I’ve lived for so long in hate and self-torment for who I am (or am not) that I don’t recognize who stands in the mirror - why doesn’t it break to reflect my fractures? I blink, and fear I’ve missed a year of life. I close my eyes, and what is it I see in the void? It’s loneliness. Empty chaos. And yet somewhere they’re there, I can hear the voices. Voices voices voices, whispering crying chanting yelling. They don’t teach me or guide me. . . they just . . . yell. Nonsense. It’s all I hear.

 
 

End of excerpts

 

I am still very much depressed. For the past three years I have been at a stage of emptiness and inaction. Sometimes I’ll go a week or more without going outside, writing that email or texting back, or do anything I feel is “productive”. For example, it’s taken me nine months to write this post (but here it is!). I’ve felt empty for so long. It seems while I was tearing down everything within me, I was shutting out anything that could be adjoined to me, and now I’ve left myself desolate and abandoned. I’ve lost so much in life. But I’ve found within me a trace of strength. So where do I go from here?

I need to find a group of friends, and I need practice confidence in myself. I also need to be medicated and go to therapy frankly, and those are hopefully soon to come if I can afford them. I need to be careful of escapism, and actively work toward my goals. I have good and bad days, but the long term seems to be tending toward the net positive. As of 2021, I’m married to Christina. She has helped me through so much and is someone I will adore until the end of time. She has taught me compassion and communication among other things and has held my hand throughout my journey to searching for ‘wellness’ with such understanding. I owe her my life.

For myself, inspired by figures like Carl Sagan, I want to learn, and I want to teach science. I want to live life to the fullest, experience the cultures of the world and tell stories through photography. And I’m taking steps to making these happen. I’ve started a photography business (registered with the state and everything, wow!) where I can share my work, stories, and occasionally post on a blog (hello there!). I’m reading books for pleasure, and occasionally bike on my local trails. I have worth, and I have something to offer the world. Even on bad days, or those where I’m not so “productive”, I must remember that I am alive today, and that in and of itself is an accomplishment. My curiosity’s returning, as is my enthusiasm for life. I’m finally pursuing the things I want, and there is so much to do. I’m overwhelmed. I’m tired. I’m ignorant of many things, and I don’t quite know how to live my life. But at least I want to.

 
 

Some bonus photos from “in-the-making” of this post while I experiment with different ideas, act silly and enjoy the creative process. Like the writing itself, the photography has been healing in a way, and gives me the feeling that I’ve reclaimed something within myself.

 

So why post this here on my website instead of an anonymous blog site elsewhere? This is an incredibly important topic for me, and I wanted this to be my first real contribution to the site and to the ‘world’. I made this website and established this business for me first, as a challenge to myself and an opportunity to contribute to great things I believe are worth contributing to in a photojournalistic manner. This post isn’t perfect, and I left much out for the sake a sort of balance between openness and brevity. But it does contain what needs to be said and is laid out in a stylistically more raw form as desired. And I don’t think reading it for the 1,032nd time would do much good. So here it is.

Thank you to Christina and my brothers for reading and giving feedback in writing this post, I am forever grateful.

 
 

Here is a link to a list of mental health resources for those that may need it. I admit I’ve never used any of them, but perhaps someone else may find some use.

I hope you’re well.

Lane Bishop