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# You’d think I’d be a well-seasoned advocate for mental health…
- URL: https://fessup.mymidnight.blog/youd-think-id-be-a-well-seasoned/
- Published: 2026-04-13T17:08:52.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-07T16:11:40.000Z
- Description: I didn’t choose this. I just tell the truth.
- Author: Jerry Fess
- Tags: Newsletter, #Migrated-1791389245739, #Import 2026-10-07 11:10

*Listening: Saturn – Sleeping At Last*

![](https://cdn.mymidnight.blog/faafda66202d234463057972460c04f5/2026/10/9e18627d-362f-465b-99d4-ca6a743c198e_1024x1536.png)

Battling treatment-resistant depression for over 35 years, you’d think I’d have this figured out.

I don’t think I was.  
I don’t even know if I am now.  
But others tell me different.

I started speaking up about my depression years ago—back when mental health wasn’t part of everyday conversation the way it is now. I told my mom. Eventually my friends. I was put in therapy and on medication.

For a moment, I felt like myself again—maybe even better than myself.

After a few months, I was told I was “back on track” and taken off the medication.

Then the world went dark.

And I’ve been chasing that kind of remission ever since.

Before I knew what advocacy even was, I was already doing it. I searched for answers. Found doctors. Looked for therapists. Tried different medications and treatments. I did everything I could to understand what was happening inside my own head.

I tried to explain it to the people around me.  
Tried to make it make sense.

I pushed back on the jokes.  
On being called a “walking pharmacy.”  
On being misunderstood.

Even on days when getting out of bed felt impossible, I still tried.

And I still do.

Some days, I think I do this really well.  
I show up. I speak honestly. I connect. I help.

And other days, I disappear.

I isolate. I sink into it. I end up in a place that feels heavy and hard to climb out of.

And sometimes, I get frustrated with that part of me—the part that tries to pull me back up. The part that says, *keep going, say something, do something.*

Because the truth is… I don’t always want to.

I don’t want the job.  
I don’t want to be an advocate.

I didn’t sign up for this.

Sometimes I don’t have anything left to say. Sometimes I don’t even know what to say.

Sometimes I just want a break.

And I deserve one.  
Just like anyone else.

> I didn’t sign up to be an advocate. I just told the truth first.

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Over time, I found support groups. And when those faded, I found something else—connection in a different form.

Social media. Online spaces. Places where people are finally starting to say the quiet parts out loud.

I shared what I was going through. The isolation. The pain. The exhaustion. The days that didn’t make sense.

And people found me.

Old friends. New ones. People carrying their own stories who just needed someone else to go first.

In being honest, I wasn’t just speaking—I was connecting.

But depression doesn’t let me hold onto that easily. It pushes back. It tells me it doesn’t matter. That none of it counts.

That’s the lie.

I may live in a small town, but the reach isn’t small anymore. Not in 2026\. Not in a world where one honest post can find someone exactly when they need it.

Some people left. That’s part of it.  
But more people stayed.

They listened.  
They reached back.

![](https://cdn.mymidnight.blog/faafda66202d234463057972460c04f5/2026/10/89b575ee-2389-4519-9f5c-509ad6d4203e_1290x860-jpeg.jpg)

I’m still learning what advocacy looks like for me. Still figuring it out in real time. Not as an expert—just as someone living it.

Trying to understand myself.  
Trying to understand others.  
Trying to be there when it matters.

---

I never set out to be an advocate.

I just told the truth.

And somehow, that was enough for someone else to feel seen.

So maybe that’s all this is—

Not being strong.  
Not having answers.

Just being honest…

and letting that be enough.

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