Am I "Blue"?

Eva Tenuto recalls letting go of her resistance to treatment for her depression, and recovery.

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My depression delivered me to its lowest depths in 2001, in a section of Brooklyn that had yet to be assigned a realtor-friendly nickname. I lived in a four-story atrocity, right under the BQE between Williamsburg and Dumbo. Now known as “Vinegar Hill,” then we called the neighborhood “Dumbsburg.” My friend Clara and I found it via an agent from Avalanche Realty. 

During a haunted house-like tour of the place, we noticed everything was held together with caulk — the banister, the door frames, the dreadful dark wood paneling.  We took a moment in the basement bathroom to discuss.  

“I fucking hate this place,” Clara said, glancing at the showerhead affixed to the wall with a big, white glob. 

“I know, me too,” I admitted. Slight pause. “We should take it, right?”

“Yup,” she answered without missing a beat. 

We hadn’t been looking for a place for long, but the clock was ticking, because we were about to be homeless. Our couch-surfing had landed us in a loft with a bunch of friends, but they’d just received an eviction notice. Soon we’d all have nowhere to live, and this place, though ugly, was huge. We signed the lease. Four floors of caulk and mold - all ours. It wasn’t until after we sent in our non-refundable security deposit that we realized all the windows were framed in adult diapers to keep out the breeze. 

I did not think my blue felt worse than other people's blue. I did think my clinical depression felt worse than other people’s blue. They aren't the same thing. I know because I’ve experienced both. 

I woke up one morning there, depression coursing through my blood. I felt contaminated, defective. My mother called. I answered the phone crying and couldn't stop. 

“Are you feeling blue again?” my mother asked.

“Blue” is what she called it every time I went through this. She’d never experienced depression. The word “blue” made me fucking crazy.

“Blue?” I asked. “Seriously?” 

“Well, what, Eva? You think that when you feel blue, it's worse than when other people feel blue?” 

“No Mom, I don't,” was all I could muster. 

I did not think my blue felt worse than other people's blue. I did think my clinical depression felt worse than other people’s blue. They aren't the same thing. I know because I’ve experienced both. 

If she said the word blue again, I thought I'd kill myself. Of course, that’s hyperbole.  But I did fantasize about it. Sometimes I thought of little else. In fact, I came up with 365 unique ways to do it -- one for each day of the year.

January 1 – Eat a peanut butter and poison jelly sandwich.

January 2 – Practice bass guitar - in the bathtub.

January 3 – Lick the baby turtle. (I’d purchased one off the street in Chinatown for my preschool class but found out it was illegal to bring baby turtles into schools because they’re deadly.)

“Is anyone else home?” my mom asked. 

“No, I'm here by myself.” 

“Oh, I hate to think of you by yourself when you’re like this.”  

“It doesn't make a difference, Mom.”   

“Why don't you go see if you can go talk to a neighbor.” 

Talk to a neighbor? How did she come up with that prized piece of advice? She knew where I lived. 

Should I have gone to: 

A) The drug dealer’s apartment? 

B) The abandoned building where the grunge kids were squatting? 

C) The skater boys’ brownstone for a nice, soothing, hot mug of bong water?

She was worried. She was desperate to help. To my surprise, exploring these non-options did help. They made me realize I had to come up with a more promising solution. I hung up the phone and knew I had to do something. 

At right, the shabby apartment building in “Dumbsberg”

My therapist from that time gently suggested medication and Alcoholics Anonymous, both of which I resisted wholeheartedly. Regardless of the fact that I could barely stop crying, I was dead set against being medicated. It seemed so uncool. Among my group of alcoholic friends (we preferred the term “partiers”), the consensus was that we weren't going to buy into The Pharmaceutical Conspiracy Taking Over America. Instead, we got wasted (aka guzzled bottles of depressants) every night and tried everything else we could think of. 

I learned St. John's Wort, when taken with a shot of tequila, was ineffective. I started jogging, hoping the endorphins would give me a boost and counteract my hangovers. Every day, I ran around Prospect Park, past the carousel, the playground, and the pond. For all three-and-a-half miles, I cried. It was supposedly impossible to run and cry at the same time, but I was defying the laws of nature.  

I cried everywhere. In the laundromat, on the exercise bike at the gym, in restaurants, bodegas. Name a place in Brooklyn, I cried there. 

I cried more than any of my preschool students. I hid in the corner of the playground, hoping none of the children would notice.  But kids always notice.  

“Ms. Eva, are you okay?” one of them asked. ”Maybe you should try to use your words.” 

My therapist from that time gently suggested medication and Alcoholics Anonymous, both of which I resisted wholeheartedly. Regardless of the fact that I could barely stop crying, I was dead set against being medicated.

Finally I gave medication a try. I couldn't believe what happened. After a few weeks, I felt a new sense of myself, and an inner peace and contentment I hadn't experienced since I was five years old. Not fighting for my life every day freed up my energy.  I thought meds would rob me of my emotions. But now I could feel anger, sadness, hurt, fear and joy: an array of feelings instead of just that one - the depression I constantly tried to run away from. The medication confirmed what I had resisted accepting: I do, in fact, have a mental illness. 

After a few years of being on psych meds, I became well enough to realize that in addition to clinical depression, I had to address my alcoholism. In 2005 I got sober. 

Check out Eva Tenuto’s story of getting treatment for her mental illness, and getting sober, which kicks off Season 7 of the award-winning TMI Project Story Hour podcast:

I still have days when I succumb to the stigma. I fantasize about being “normal” and wish I didn't have a mental illness or need medication. But then I look at the life I lead. I get to show up for the job of my dreams, helping other people share their stories. I get to have deeply meaningful relationships. I get to take care of myself well.  

When I find myself backsliding into a pity party about having a mental illness and needing medication, I think about the unlucky gifted people who suffered through this disease before medication was available, like Virginia Woolf and Vincent Van Gogh. I remind myself to be grateful that I've been able to muster the courage to share this story with you, with both ears intact and no rocks in my pockets.