Borrowed Words: Silent Doesn’t Mean Fine

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard the phrase, “I had no idea my loved one was dealing with depression. They never said anything.”

I know I’ve blindsided people in my own life after finally revealing the depths—the lengths, the years—of depression I’ve lived with for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t until I finally spoke about it that anyone truly understood what was happening inside of me.

“We had no idea—you always seemed so happy.”

“You never said anything that made us think you were depressed.”

These reactions are genuine. They’re heartfelt. But they’re also the painful realizations that loved ones are forced to confront when depression finally comes to light.

Depression is many things: hopelessness, sadness, suicidal ideation, worthlessness, self-hatred, anhedonia, isolation—the list goes on. But one of the most misunderstood aspects of depression is the expectation that a depressed person can talk about it.

Yes, shame, guilt, and embarrassment play their roles. Those alone can shut down any conversation. But beneath all of that—at the core of the silence—is something harder to explain.

Depression steals your words.

When my own words vanish, music speaks from me,

Depression steals your language. Thoughts won’t form. The world closes in, then goes completely dark. You’re trapped—gasping for air—without even a pinhole of light offering connection or hope. You know you exist only because of the relentless, gut-wrenching pain inside you, yet your mind feels obliterated.

You can’t explain it. You can’t make sense of it. You open your mouth to speak, but words no longer exist. The endless stream of hot tears running down your face becomes the only language you have left.

I’ve cycled in and out of depression more times than Los Angeles has cycled through Botox appointments. When I’m lucky, I catch the cues on my way down. Reading becomes impossible because I can’t focus. Going out in public feels unbearable as paranoia creeps in—everyone feels too close (bonus points for bipolar depression).

I can’t stop it. But I can get more intentional about self-care and give myself grace for all the things I think I should be doing but can’t. Don’t “should” yourself to death. Trust me—it’s not worth it.

When my words are taken from me, I find relief in the words of others. Sometimes that means releasing the pressure by singing—probably more like squawking—Florence + the Machine at the top of my lungs. Other times, it’s rapping along word-for-word with master storytellers like Eminem and 2Pac.

When their voices, their stories, their music hit my soul, something shifts. My brain floods. I feel connection. Relief—even if only for a moment. Their music reminds me that I’m still alive.

I know not everyone understands my attachment to certain artists, so let me put it this way: throw on Eminem – Godzilla (ft. Juice WRLD). When the beat hits and the lyrics flood your mind, it feels like a mini-cease fire in my mind. There’s comfort in repetition. There’s comfort in the intensity.

When depression drowns me in silence, I borrow their words. I lean into their passion. And for a moment, that’s enough to keep me here.

“I hope everybody having a good day

Um, I hope everyone accomplished something significant

Even if you didn’t accomplish something significant, don’t be discouraged. 

Just aim to accomplish something significant tomorrow or the next day.

Um, if anybody is going through anything I hope and pray that you get through it and just know that you do have the strength to get through it no matter what the fuck it is.” - R.I.P. Juice WRLD