I know what some of you might be thinking, “That is an incredibly stupid title.” But before you scroll away or close that tab, allow me to explain myself.
Being a psychotherapist, I know all too well that there are about a thousand and one reasons to be depressed right now: war, genocide, capitalism, eco-destruction, heartbreak, chronic illness, death… the list goes on. In fact, I’m sure that the longer I work in this field, the more likely I am to encounter all of the new and wonderful ways that life can crush the human soul.
But more than that, before I even set foot in an academic institution or opened up the godforsaken Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), I knew depression like it was the very cerebrospinal fluid encasing my brain. You see, I’m a firm believer that there is a reason that a psychotherapist becomes a psychotherapist, and for me, well, it was treatment-resistant depression.
Treatment-resistant depression, as the definition goes, is a form of major depressive disorder that occurs when a person is unresponsive to at least two first-line anti-depressant treatments. I won’t name the various brands of anti-depressants this entails because I’m convinced that by this point, a good chunk of us Canadians (roughly 16.4%) have already tried them. All things aside, one thing I know for sure is that by the time I was 24 years old, I had earned this diagnosis by unsuccessfully trying every single anti-depressant on the market. I guess you could call me an “anti-depressant connoisseur” of some sort.
I even tried psychotherapy, and lots of it. During one of my first attempts as a professional client, I sat in an 80s-style outpatient hospital wing, the kind with Pepto Bismol-pink walls, doing all sorts of cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) worksheets. The nurse working with me, who probably should’ve done more training in psychotherapy, respectfully, spent more time writing things down on her clipboard than she did looking at my face. So much so that if you asked me to describe her face, I honestly couldn’t. But I could describe what her clipboard looked like (corkboard brown, like it had been stained by years of chain-smoking indoors).
It wasn’t until I had met one nurse, three psychiatrists, and one psychotherapist that I finally met the clinician for me. A down-to-earth, relational psychotherapist — we spent ten years unpacking all sorts of abysmal horrors cooked up by my traumatic childhood and the unfortunate combination of high sensitivity, neurodivergence, and giftedness.
I wanna preface by saying that there are no words in the English language to express the deep sense of gratitude I feel for the psychotherapist I worked with for ten years. While I initially said my reason for becoming a psychotherapist myself was my treatment-resistant depression, in all honesty, part of the reason was her. That being said, psychotherapy is not a “cure” and ethical clinicians know not to peddle it as such. Which is why after ten years of it, I still deal with treatment-resistant depression today.
According to the researchers Webb, Gore, Amend, and DeVries (2007), “People who are bright are usually more intense, sensitive, and idealistic, and they can see the inconsistencies and absurdities in the values and behaviours of others.” While I can’t speak for everyone, I can speak for myself and confirm that my experience has very much followed suit.
When you’re gifted and sensitive, you crave a closeness that can only be described as living in each other’s skin. You want to know why loved ones feel and think the way they do, and have that same level of knowing returned. When it’s not, it feels like you’re experiencing life through gloves, trying to sense the texture of experiences with incomplete tactile capabilities. And so you try harder and harder, until you’re placing your hands in an open fire just to feel warmth.
For years, I felt myself set ablaze while simultaneously trying to work through the expectations of life. I worked three part-time jobs during my undergraduate degree to help pay for my tuition. I stayed up late writing essays at Robart’s Library when my computer broke and I couldn’t afford to buy a new one. I scoured through Facebook groups for free food events on campus, such as the “free pie for Pii day” events, when I didn’t have money for food. The list goes on. Life became a dance between a desire for connection and the need to stay financially afloat. On some days, I was so tired and hungry that I couldn’t even think about making friends or maintaining the few that I had. Nonetheless, I knew that this wasn’t a state of being that I wanted to be in forever, so about $80,000 of student loan debt and three career changes later, I finally reached the “middle class.”
One of the first things I did when I opened my own psychotherapy practice was design a schedule that would allow me to rest. As I mentioned earlier, I knew what it was like to struggle financially and how that impacted my ability to spend time with others. Not only did I want to model healthy relationships for my clients, but I wanted to live life, not just be alive. So I settled on seeing a few clients in the morning and a few in the evening, with several hours in between dedicated to what I affectionately called “frolic time.”
Frolic time is as jubilant as it sounds. The goal is simple: disconnect from devices and sit in a park to enjoy nature to the fullest. And boy did I enjoy it. The first few times I had frolic time, I was coming to terms with the fact that I had spent the entirety of my 20s working nearly 50 hours a week. Sitting on a bench, being present under a tree, I realized just how comforting the sound of birds chirping was, and how ethereal sunlight looks like when it’s peeking between leaves. But as nice as this was, I started to realize after a few of these dedicated breaks that I needed something to snack on if I was going to sit outside for a few hours. So I hopped over to the neighbouring grocery store to see what they had in store.
The first time I discovered affogato I thought, “This is it, the best snack that I could get.” Some might argue that it’s more of a drink than a snack because it’s essentially espresso with gelato in it, but to that I say: tomato tomato. By the time I discovered affogato at this grocery store, I decided that I would make an effort to try every single batch of gelato combination they had. And I continue to try!
If you’ve come this far in my post, you’re probably wondering, “What the fuck does any of this have to do with happiness?” Well, for me, it has a great deal to do with happiness. You see, when I was in my 20s, I could not afford to just get a $7 affogato a week. At that time, every cent was either going to tuition, necessary food, or public transportation. Nor could I even dream of taking what is essentially an extended, middle-class siesta between clients. And while I’m still working on finding those deeper connections that I crave, withdrawing my hands from that aforementioned open fire, I now have the mental and financial capacity to do so.
All I know is that I don’t have all the answers to why my treatment-resistant depression persists the way it does. But I’m willing to hope that the road to happiness is paved with affogato, or at least, all the comfort and connections that come with it.