Harry Miller gets it. He is a former Ohio State football player, still young but no longer playing because his mental illness was not having it. He has struggled with depression and anxiety since he was a young boy, with suicidal thoughts to pair with his excellent scholastic record (he was valedictorian) and football prowess. When he came “out” about his mental struggles, he was hailed as brave, brave, brave. In an interview for a popular morning show, Miller was in tears, not from his bravery, but because he was getting choked up watching the video intro that showed him playing with some kids. He missed the kids. I loved how he was in his own world, not really emotionally worried about the effusive hosts.
The morning show hosts were “on” and a bit extra, praising him for his bravery and honesty and vulnerability and telling him they were so happy that he was alive. It felt weird. Not fake, I don’t think they were uncaring, but just removed from the reality of what they were talking about. They were selling a story of inspiration, and this guy is just trying to tell them how he didn’t die. It was weird. The tone was off.
At one point they asked him what he would say to someone who is in that dark place, that space where your life doesn’t matter to you anymore. The question (and the way they pitched it) was a bit off-putting to me, like a cue for more inspiration porn.
He turned to the camera, still teary, and said: “Pretend. One day you won’t have to pretend anymore.”
I was like: YES. That boy gets it. He’s been there. Pretend to hope. He didn’t tell people it gets better or anything trite like that, he was talking directly to the person in THAT moment, when there is no possibility of believing in hope, joy, or anything other than this miry pit. He gave them permission to fake it, pretend to have joy, and one day you won’t have to. That’ll save a life. Because someone in that moment who is asked to have hope/hold on will tell you that hope is not available, strength to hold on is futile. (It’s like asking me to hear better. It’s literally impossible, save a miracle, and I don’t think that miracle is coming.)
So Harry says: pretend. Pretend that you believe in miracles. Pretending is putting one foot in front of the other when you know damn well there is no point. Pretending is smiling for the camera so you don’t look a fool and feeling the 0.2 seconds of serotonin that it might offer. Pretending is taking a shower when you don’t want to and have no plans to leave the house. Pretending is checking your mail when you know it’s all junk. Pretending is betting small change on a shit hand because you kinda want to keep playing even though everything is telling you to fold. Pretending is telling a little white lie to make someone feel better knowing it ain’t true. Pretending is how you float when your arms are tired.
Harry Miller gets it. Because what he did in that moment was give permission for that person to be where they were. You don’t have to do something you don’t believe, you don’t have to remember something, or think of something, or understand something. Just pretend. Pretend a little longer until you don’t have to pretend anymore.
Hope is pretending at its core: it’s pretending that the good thing is here now, or at the very least that it will come soon. Hope is foolish. When we hope, at the fundamental level of that word’s meaning, we assume something is coming that we have no proof for. We don’t actually know, we don’t actually have evidence that our hope is valid or even sane.
When someone is in the depth of depression, asking them to hold on to hope is meaningless and impossible. It hurts to hear it, because they see someone that has access to something they do not. They cannot hold something that isn’t there. They do not have access to a future that brings what they ask for: joy, no pain, freedom, acceptance, love. That’s why they’re depressed. Whether it is situational or chemical, in their brain- the future contains no joy or hope. They cannot fathom a future that looks any different. On the outside people who are not in that dark cave see like an omnipotent God, thousands of possibilities and hopeful outcomes, but when someone is in that cave, they see only darkness.
Depression lies, but it’s really smart about it. It likes to draw from life, pick up all the soft and vulnerable spots and orchestrate them into a fatalistic dream, only you’re awake, and it is real. Depression tells you that the only real thing is your understanding of reality, which is that everything is bullshit and meaningless.
But if you tell someone in the cave to pretend- that they might be able to do. They don’t have to do mental gymnastics to pretend. They can pretend that there is something worth living for (even though they believe there isn’t). They can pretend that depression is lying to them (although they’re quite sure it isn’t). They can pretend that hope will come.
And one day, they won’t have to pretend anymore.
Harry Miller gets it. Pretending is the mustard seed of hope. It’s a weight that can be carried. Perhaps the only weight that can. It’s not inspiring, it’s survival.
