Some new friends have been getting on to me lately about being a closed book. So here it goes.

I’ve mentioned here before that I have depression. I have had it for years now. Depression doesn’t have the stigma it had when I was first diagnosed. People understand now that it’s a disease but not that it’s a debilitating disease that goes well beyond mere sadness.

I make a point to tell people about it, and now I get more responses like “but you’re so friendly” than “no shit,” which perplexes and amuses me.

People who haven’t had depression, or who don’t have a close friend or family member with depression, simply don’t understand what’s involved. This presents problems. When you’re the one with depression, it’s no longer as abstract a matter as educating the public.

When my depression flares up, I change. What were previously simple tasks become herculean efforts. People who haven’t experienced depression think this is unfortunate and inconvenient and sad, which is true. But it is much more than that.

The first thing that goes is people. Simply put, talking with other people hurts. It’s an almost physical pain. Doing anything, and everything, hurts. I am presented with a very clear choice: now that doing anything hurts, which pains do I choose? Or, better put, which pains can I not avoid?

I realize now that people who haven’t experienced depression will have a hard time understanding this. It may be helpful to imagine me getting some other illness, say, what my grandmother called “walking pneumonia.” I can run to the store. I can pull a six hour day at work. I can go out to dinner with an old friend. But not all three, not in the same day. That would hurt too much and be bad for my health besides.

Those of us with depression are not accorded the same social allowances as those with, say, shingles. When people with shingles go to work thirty hours a week and teach Sunday school, they are congratulated with “isn’t she brave?” When people with depression do these things, they are lucky to solicit a “meh.”

More often than not people with depression are congratulated with a “finally” or a “where’s he been?” or “why hasn’t she called?” We get reputations for being “flaky” and “lazy” and “unreliable.” People wonder why we don’t buck up and get with the program. But they never seem to say that about someone with shingles.

We learn this. We learn what people say about us, and, sometimes, it’s what we say to ourselves. We learn to keep our commitments and our circle of friends small. That way less people will talk about us when we don’t come through.

It’s true that I could tell people about my depression more often. Maybe if they knew, they wouldn’t label. Yet, though the stigma is lighter these days, it still seems like I’m burdening someone when I apologize with not following through with something because of a depression flare up. When they even believe me.

It doesn’t help that I play it off as “a bit of a funk,” but I haven’t found another way to do it yet. It makes people feel awkward to hear me say, “I have depression and that means I…” Then they feel sad for me, or act confused, or don’t believe me. The worst is when they offer advice. I don’t think they offer people with shingles the same advice.

When depression strikes and I am presented with that choice of pains, I have to choose between people, projects, work, and chores. I’ve usually chosen work. There are all sorts of reasons for my making that choice, but that’s neither here nor there. Two, probably three, have to go. Working gets me meds at the pharmacy and a seat on the therapist’s couch. None of the others will do that. Or, at least, I don’t believe that they will.

About a year ago this deal quit working for me. Because I chose to play out some old, unhealthy patterns at work, it was drawing too much energy. Going to work was hurting more than it was supposed to, and I was scared where that would take me.

One of the things you learn when you have recurring depressions is that depression, well, recurs. You learn to gauge how long and deep and depression will be. You learn, with a good therapist, tactics you can use to stave it off or at least minimize it. But when it appears on the horizon, you know that unless you can ward it off this time, soon it will cause an almost physical pain to return phone calls and unload the dishwasher.

Given a choice between returning phone calls, meeting new people, or sending an email, on the one hand, and possibly warding off a depression on the other, I will always choose the chance of avoiding depression.

Strategically, I know, it makes more sense to reach out to other people, but when depression is staring me in the face, it is safer, tactically, to stay in the study and read. Reading fills me with a small, containable dose of energy and gives me a structure to live in that isn’t depression, that doesn’t hurt much. The same goes for writing. I don’t know why.

I can’t count the number of new friends I have lost from phone calls not returned and emails not exchanged. I don’t want to, but I know it’s a lot. If a depression is looming, or present, I only have energy for people that I know know depression, for people who already know me. When depression hits, I can’t bear to explain. It’s enough work not to stay home and sleep all day. I just hope people will understand and leave it at that.

I am reaching out more these days. I know this is good for me, and after work became too costly I knew all the more that I needed to reach out. I am deeply grateful for all the new friends who have followed up with me, who have called and IMed and invited me out. I am grateful for how they have accepted me and for how they have not expected too much. The first thing that goes is people, but good friends make me want to bring people back.