The Monster called Depression-Part 1

I can't understand depression. I never believed this monster would even exist in an affluent society such as ours, in Canada.  I know it is in the mind. Feeling helpless, hopeless, unworthy, useless and sad. My European background mentality would be inclined to say that, "I'll give you something to be depressed about...." Simply meaning, that you did not have a right to feel this way, unless there was an obvious reason for feeling so blue. For instance, if you lost an arm, lost a child, lost your only job, had no water or food, or something significant. I find it almost impossible to understand "depression" when you have a roof over your head, food in your fridge, healthcare, and a meaningful fellowship to belong to. How can one be depressed, when we can go to movies, have computers, enjoy the beach, have food, have clothes, shoes and have our own Bibles?  My daughter who is studying to be a nurse looked up the word health in the dictionary "a state characterized by anatomic, physiologic, and psychological integrity; ability to perform personally valued family, work, and community roles; ability to deal with physical, biologic, psychological, and social stress". I believe that Deborah was no longer healthy, after her psychosis episode, in January of 2014.  In her mind she was no longer a healthy person. She was in despair.

My parents and I escaped from Communism in 1970, and we considered ourselves the most blessed folks on the planet. We were thankful for everything. While we were waiting to be admitted to Canada,we played badminton for hours in the refugee camp. We played with children from Somalia, and ate buttered bread with tomatoes. We were time millionaires at the camp with people from all over the world.  My parents left with 2 suitcases from Budapest, and that was it. I knew there were many delays in their papers, and immigration documents, but they never felt sorry for themselves. They were assertive, hard working, busy folks who wanted to make Canada their home. My dad became a drywall-er in Toronto, and my mom worked in a local hospital kitchen. My mom would often help my dad on weekends.  The dust from sanding, I believe, caused him to develop lung cancer later in life. He was not a smoker.  My dad passed away in 2010 in Florida, as with most snow birds, they settled there in 1980. I never saw them depressed, but occasionally dad cried as he had a soft heart.

Truly, depression is something that plays out in the mind of a person. To this day, I don't know if Deborah was depressed, to the point of taking her life. The doctor seems to think so, as she had this orchestrated meticulously, down to the song she choose for her funeral. I see other people around me who sleep all day, or spend their days in their rooms, some play endless electronic games into their adult years, sometimes for weeks on end. They seem to be paralyzed and avoid getting help for some reason. Maybe they are afraid that the so called anti-depressants might actually cause them to even further fall off the deep end, and or commit suicide from using them. Look around you. Are these people simply escaping reality, or are they depressed?
The song Deborah selected for her funeral. (All of them erased all except two). This one is by Colton Dixon called Never Gone. We are very grateful for him.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RAUcczfMYE

                                                                                                                                         continued