Daniel McQuade: No easy answers when battling depression

Every time I think I'm doing better than a year ago, I think to myself, "Better? Better than what?" Man, that's a depressing start to a column, even for one about depression. Forget that. Let's try this again.

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I'm not really a worrier. I don't worry about grades, the war, graduation, the job hunt. It doesn't mean I don't care about those things -- I just don't like to dwell on them.

I do sometimes worry about myself, though.

I've been depressed for about three years now. Sometimes during that three-year period, there have been reasons. Sometimes there haven't been. (The better times have been when there's a reason.)

I've had days when I've been fine, I've had days when I haven't, and I've had days when I've been depressed about being depressed. My logic: A white, upper-middle-class kid from Northeast Philly should feel pretty secure with his place in the world. What's going on here?

This isn't one of those "I'm finally coming out of it" stories. Believe me, it'd probably be nicer if it was. But I don't feel like lying in this space, and you wouldn't want to read it if I did. People who have come out of depression have done a fine job of expressing themselves, sometimes on this page.

Over the past three years, I've tried many things to shake the blues. I've gone to several different therapists and tried several different medications, a veritable soup of brain-altering drugs: Paxil, Effexor, Wellbutrin, Zoloft and combinations of the aforementioned drugs.

Eventually, I found it easier to skip all that jazz and just deal with it myself. To each his own, I suppose.

There was a tour sometime last year where Hall of Fame quarterback Terry Bradshaw went around and talked about how he had recovered from depression with Paxil CR, which was of course sponsoring the tour. Bradshaw made sure to mention Paxil CR in pretty much every other syllable during his interviews. It got funny after a while. (Actual Bradshaw quote from a press release: "With the help of therapists, counselors and the medication they prescribed for me, Paxil CR, my panic attacks are gone, and I can pay attention to the elements of my life that are important.")

Having a funnyman (and a former great quarterback, as well) pitch awareness of depression -- an estimated 19 million Americans are affected with it -- is a great idea, as was the recent Active Minds week at Penn. However, the latter had the unfortunate timing of being scheduled the same week as every other awareness week on campus.

I didn't attend any of these Active Minds events, because while I do think awareness is good, I didn't think that the stigma surrounding depression was all that prevalent. I mean, depression? Everyone's depressed, at least some time. No sense in hiding it, right?

But I think back to last year, when a "friend" not-so-slyly accused me of faking it to get extra time on a paper. (This is, of course, balderdash -- anyone who knows me knows that I would never dream of turning in a paper on time. Ba-dum-pum. Just a little columnist humor there for you, folks.)

I don't know what the answer is -- although I know that sense of humor has to be a part of it. Maybe there still is a stigma. You've been advised countless times by people to get help if you need it. Great. But I worry: What if that help doesn't, um, help?

I may not ever get better. But at this point, I've come to terms with my depression. I might not understand it, but I can control it. Maybe I'll need therapy or drugs again, maybe not. Maybe I'll come out of it, maybe not. Whatever. It'll be alright.

Right?

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I can't end on that note.

I waxed esoteric too much in this column. I may not be a worrier, but I sure was a whiner. Maybe I'm getting a little bit of need-to-make-my-mark-before-I-graduate syndrome-- which isn't in the DSM-IV, as far as I know.

Look, here's the deal: You can read as many stories or statistics about depression as you want, but you need to be (buzzword alert) proactive. Not about yourself, but about others.

I've lost some friends because of depression, but some of them really made sure I was OK at times. They were important. Without them ... well, you know how this sentence ends.

If you know someone who may be depressed, do something. OK?

There. That's better.

Daniel McQuade is a senior English major from Philadelphia, Pa., and former 34th Street managing editor. Lone Wolf McQuade appears on Thursdays.

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