I was so refreshed by the candid comment of reader Margaret and so many others on my “They Just Don’t Get It” post.
Margaret’s insights deserve an entire post because she hit on so many emotions that depressives feel but are ashamed to say out loud, like how annoying it is when someone tells us to count our blessings.
Thanks Margaret! Here’s her comment, almost in full:

If you’ve never felt the deep abyss under your feet or heard the black dog howling at your back, you DON’T get it. I’ve stopped trying to explain my tears and instead just tell my sisters, friends, and son that they have to allow me to feel what I feel. They don’t have to like or accept it; it’s MINE, and I have the right to it even if I’d (gladly) let it go for longer than five minutes at a time!
What’s hardest for me is hearing, “But you have so much to be thankful for!”( I survived a major stroke) as if I don’t know that and am not thankful. It still doesn’t neutralize the pain or loneliness of depression.

God forgive me, there are (I’m being brutally honest here!) actually times that I wonder if it might not have been better for everyone if I hadn’t survived! I realize how melodramatic that sounds, but deep depression IS melodramatic, and as we all know, it’s a club we don’t seek to join, but one that chooses us. Meds and counseling can and do help, as does prayer, but (at least in my case) they haven’t provided a “cure” since the abyss yawns there constantly, even when I’ve found a bridge to temporarily get me across it. And I’m positive that that howling bitch has whelped a full litter of pups, because there always seems to be one ready to take up the chorus after a respite.
What HAS helped me, though is journaling, both prayer journaling and letters to myself. I’ve begun each one with a warning on the inside cover to anyone who might one day pick them up that the contents weren’t written for anyone else’s eyes and therefore might hurt the feelings or sensibilities of anyone bold enough to read the words, since writing things down always incurs that danger and a reader always brings his or her own perspective to the table. I no longer make any excuses; I take my meds, talk to my counselor, and write my heart out to attempt to domesticate the dogs, but I am entitled to my feelings, and my tears when they’re needed.
Maybe those techniques will help some of you; I’ve certainly received support from many of the things you’ve been kind enough to share on this site.
My personal faith has also been a life ring at times, although, let me tell you, I have a question or two for our Lord when I finally meet him face-to face. We may no longer use snake pits as places in which to ensconce our society’s mentally ill, but I’m convinced that’s what lives at the bottom of the abyss, and I honestly don’t think anyone who has never found him or herself dangling over its maw isn’t capable of understanding the fear or isolation we experience on most if not all the days of our lives.
PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, just spare me the platitudes. Don’t tell me time will heal all wounds unless you can tell me how much time, and don’t remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for as if I am a recalcitrant child who has CHOSEN this state of mind. Give me enough credit to know that I have received many blessings, and don’t assume that you know what they are; we might see the exact same event or circumstances completely differently. In fact, I can almost guarantee that this is true of at least some things. And just as you can’t ‘get’ my feelings, I cannot necessarily understand yours either! Everyone out there hang in there, even if it DOES have to be over the yawning abyss; I feel as though you’re all kindred spirits. I, for one, am no longer going to try to help others understand nor will I ever again apologize for my emotions. I’ll keep loving those individuals whom I already love, but I will from now on demand that they respect my feelings as I try to do theirs, even if we can’t ‘get’ each other.