How are you? The most dreaded question in history

Dear Sami:

This morning, you asked me how I was doing, and my life flashed before my eyes. It felt like one of those movie moments, when the car veers off the road, and the protagonist is left staring wide-eyed into the fast-approaching headlines.

“Oh, you know,” I began, and then trailed off with a vague gesture of my hand, as if that movement could encapsulate the complexity of the human brain.

You raised a brow, as if to say, actually, I don’t know, or have any semblance of an idea of what you are talking about. I offered a sheepish smile.

It seems counterintuitive that I write about mental health yet struggle to articulate my emotions. There’s just something about that three-word question—how are you—that's loaded with unspoken assumptions. Never more do I dread answering than during episodes of depression.

Living with depression feels like walking with a broken leg while the world expects me to run a marathon. If I crawled out from a car crash and told a passing stranger I’ve hurt my leg, they're not going to question my condition. I’d get crutches, physical therapy, accommodations: whatever it takes to make me feel better. With depression, though, that broken leg becomes a chronic, and sometimes invisible, disability. Sitting down isn’t an option, not all the time, and especially not when symptoms are so easily overshadowed by surface-level appearances. A half-hearted smile, a well-fashioned outfit, a jeweled accessory… it doesn’t take much to convince the world I am okay. So I pray on the power of manifestation, and I fake it. Hour by hour. Day by day.

I wish that facade was all it took it make the emotions beneath go away.

People in pain will go to great lengths for relief. Some of us rely on therapy and meds; others turn to alcohol or self-harm. The Great Wall-sized barrier that keeps many of us from asking for help, is that we can’t just show you the mental swelling, the bruises and dislocations caused by our condition. You might notice the scars on my wrists, the darkness under my eyes, the frailty in my bones—but you will never be able to see the full scope of the thoughts and emotions agonizing my mind. I am afraid, terrified really, that my depression won’t be taken seriously. Sometimes I question whether it should be. That’s without mentioning the doubt incited by toxic people who make those fears come true.

You’re not one of those people, though—and I know you’ll always believe me. For that, I love you.

But it’s not just the invisibility of my condition that makes it difficult to answer your question; it’s the pressure I put on myself to be a “success story.” As humans, I think we are drawn to positive story arcs. The entrepreneurs who conquered their childhood anxiety, the celebrities who overcame addiction and abuse. These are compelling narratives. Negativity, by contrast, is a black hole. Its pull is so strong that it saps our energy in an instant: clouds our smiles, burdens our souls. This is what terrifies me... that admitting my depression will drain you until one day, you find yourself only able to associate my presence with darkness.

Of course, any person with mental illness is more than their diagnosis. More human, more complex. But there’s something about admitting my struggles that feels inherently victimizing. Like I am not a person with depression but a depressed person. This logic is flawed, as my therapist will remind me at length, but I have such distaste for the "woe is me" lens that I can't help but obsess about it. I take painstaking measures to ensure I come across as a positive leader; an energizing person. And yet, in truth, I spend a large part of my depressive episodes without optimism. Without hope. It’s hard to strike the right balance when I’m articulating that juxtaposition.

You tell me every day that you care about the truth, that you would rather share this burden with me than watch me shoulder it myself. I believe you, but I don’t think you understand just how heavy the weight can get. That beneath the fresh-pressed blazer and the high heels, I’m not just sad; I’m agonizing. Wasting my leisure time sprawled on the floor, banging my head to the carpet, staring out my second-story window and begging to feel something beyond utter loathing for the world outside it.

So, how am I?

Tight with anxiety. Hollow with depression. In the dark, my thoughts go where I don’t want them to go.

I don’t know how to say all of that without overwhelming you, though, so I’m going to smile. I’m going to tell you I’m hanging in there. And I’m going to keep trying my best, sixty seconds at a time.

Some day soon, I’ll be ready to tell you the truth. I know that when I do, you’ll be here, ready to listen.

Thank you for that.

Love,

Kaila

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If you're struggling with your mental health, you are not alone. Help is always available. Please call your local crisis line or 988 in the U.S., or visit kailamorris.com/resources for additional avenues for support. <3

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