“Don’t diagnose yourself.”
That’s what my colleague said, years ago, when I mentioned I suspected I had depression.
I did seek help, much later, when I could.
He folded his arms sanctimoniously and repeated himself, “You can’t just diagnose yourself.”
Well, if you can see someone, do it. If you have the luxury and privilege of affording professional help, get it.
Otherwise, statements like the one from colleague-dude reek of rotten, generalized, and unmitigated bullshit.
I learned this firsthand during days spent in military barracks.
I saw how the guys often had no one to turn to.
Sure, the Corporals and Lieutenants played the role of mother and father to the troops, but they weren’t trained therapists, doctors, or psychologists.
The problem with any generalization, any neat little truism like “You can’t diagnose yourself” or “You can’t do this by yourself,” is that it’s pure shit.
Sooner or later, you’ll find yourself in a space where you’re the only bloody one present.
If the apocalypse hits, wiping out half of humanity, and the EMP leaves you outside comms zones, wounded and broken, it’s just you.
So diagnose away, to your heart’s content, whether you’re bleeding or suffering from a headache.
But move.
Keep moving toward a space where you might get better assistance.
Crawl if you have to, but keep moving.
That blinking little light on the real or proverbial dashboard often tells you nothing, except one thing: time to get help. Or maybe only to determine if the light itself is broken.
And that’s the self-diagnosis that matters: the moment you stop ignoring the signal.
Diagnosis isn’t about labeling yourself; it’s about admitting something’s wrong and deciding to act.
It means choosing movement over paralysis, awareness over denial.
So, the diagnosis translates into: Now, I’m choosing to do something NOW.
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Many, many years ago, before the language of the self and psychology entered the common vernacular, I lived in the prison of the black daily hell of depression (for many years not even knowing what to call it), but more than that, if I was to survive I had to find expression for the reality of my lived experience. It was a slow agonising crawl of years of exploration to learn that my particular depression was a mind striving from release from abuse which had formed me, my world and my psychology. There was no language, nor help beyond drugs like Ativan which were worse than heroin. I made the journey alone, to discover that my specific depression was the kindness of my own mind crying help (to me), like a traffic light stuck on red, warning of danger, danger, danger. My home and school conditioning was killing me and I needed to get out. I ran with the dogs of hell chasing my tail, from the prison of factory life, to an outdoor pursuits company which took on lost souls and turned us into river leaders. I am now 74 and free of depression and grateful for the help I have been given on the way, in the emerging world of psychology and person centred therapy in particular.
Thank you for this. We are the experts of our own psychology and can get to know it intimately. I did not know it at the time, but I was a pioneer driven by desperation to seek change. The traffic light (blinking light) is still inside me, it seldom needs to get past amber before it has my undivided attention. It has served me well over a long life. I once crawled on hands and knees and would not hesitate to do so again.
Be well, Keith.
You found a way out, through kindness, That’s something. Yes, there’s some duality in there if I read correctly, the once perceived enemy became the guide.
I have linked to this article in my latest post which you prodded me to attempt. My Old Friend — the Black Dog.
Perfect! The pingback is added.
With apologies, I forgot to mention… What I called depression and regarded as THE enemy, was, in reality, the ignored traffic light demanding attention and thus it became my best friend as I moved on towards healing and freedom.
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