I've had chronic depression, to varying degrees, for most of my life.  I got much better at dealing with it once I acknowledged it; these days, I have a well-tested self-care regimen, including meds and therapy when necessary, that serves me quite well. But in my teens and twenties, I didn't understand that my self-loathing was the symptom of an illness. A lot of the time, maybe even most of the time, I just thought I was a waste of protoplasm.

I had a friend named Marge, older than I by several decades, who served as a mentor and listening ear. I'd call her when I felt horrible (even then, I knew that reaching out to other people was usually a good idea), and she'd reassure me that I wasn't a horrible person, that I was a wonderful person. But this turned into a vicious cycle for several reasons:

1. I always felt compelled to come up with reasons why I wasn't wonderful, which meant convincing myself that I really was horrible;
2. I came to depend on Marge for reasons to feel good, which wasn't healthy for the friendship—can you say “codependency”? I knew you could!—and also left me feeling more powerless over my own moods; and...
3. Marge’s contradiction of my reasoning made me feel like I was wrong and stupid for feeling wrong and stupid.

One night I called her and started the familiar recitation of self-hatred. Marge listened patiently, as always. But this time when I finished, instead of telling me that I was wonderful, she said gently, “Okay, Susan. Now tell me three things you like about yourself.”

That stopped me cold, and neatly undid the earlier problems:

1. It meant I had to think of my positive qualities, instead of arguing for negative ones
2. It made me responsible for feeling better, instead of leaving Marge in charge of that project; and...
3. Coming up with three items made me feel as if I'd accomplished something, and thus became another item for the next list. “I like myself because I thought of three reasons I like myself.”

And she wasn't telling me that the things I hated about myself weren't there, that I was delusional or stupid for seeing them; she was simply asking me to claim the good things that lay next to them. 

The first time she said it, though, I couldn't think of anything. Not one thing. Marge said, “Okay, I'm going to tell you three things I like about you, and then you're going to do it.” So she said her three things—I don't even remember now what they were—and then I very slowly came up with my own lame list. I didn't believe the items on the list, though, and anyway, they were vastly outnumbered by the horrible things.

“That’s okay,” Marge told me. “The things you like are real and valuable, even if there’s still a lot you don't like. Just concentrate on the good stuff, for as long as it takes you to make the list. Just for a little while, don't think about the bad stuff. It will get easier. This is something you can practice.”

I've been practicing ever since, and it’s gotten a lot easier. When I find myself falling into reflexive self-hatred—which happens much less often than it used to—I just as reflexively remind myself to come up with that three-item list. It acts as a circuit-breaker. On my very worst days, the list may be something like, “I like myself because I got out of bed this morning. I like myself because I ate breakfast. I like myself because I took a shower.” But those days are rare.

In the 20 years since that conversation with Marge, I've passed her gift on to other friends, especially younger friends, who struggle with their own self-hatred. It almost always seems to have the same effect on them that it first had on me: dead silence, followed by a slow and halting struggle to name three positive qualities. I can only hope that it continues to help these friends the way it’s helped me, and that they in turn will pass it on to others.

Stephanie Williams tells us about "the gift of help"

In the fall of 2003, I was given a gift that changed my life forever. I had recently started classes for my master’s degree in an accelerated night and weekend program in Washington,DC. I was working a full-time job and living in Northern Virginia. I could not afford to buy a car. And I knew something was terribly wrong with my health.

During the prior two winters, I was living with debilitating pain. Like many Washington area workers, I depended on the train and bus system to get to where I needed to go. I was exposed to the freezing temperatures for several hours each day, and during my commutes to and from work, my hands and feet would freeze up and turn an ashy shade of white. I often felt as if a 200-pound person was standing on my hands. 

Like clockwork, I would experience daily and severe headaches that often lasted for several hours after I arrived at work. The headaches would reoccur in the evenings and usually prevented me from getting more than an hour or two of sleep at night after night for months on end.

I was desperate for help. Other health problems were also scaring me. I had strange symptoms that included joint pain, skin problems, swelling, and stiffness. For ten years, I persistently searched for answers to these problems. However, doctor after doctor either told me that nothing was wrong or they did not know how to find relief for me. 

All of those circumstances made me feel as if I was on the verge of a disaster. I knew that finding out the cause of my health problems would be an ongoing process. Yet, my desire to continue my education was irrepressible. I decided to take a leap of faith that somehow things would work out. And they did.

I was given an unexpected gift of help from someone I barely knew. When classes first started, our sessions would end at 10pm.  Between the shuttle bus from campus, the ride on the train, and the walk home, it was usually after 11:30pm by the time I arrived at my apartment.

After a week or two of classes, one of my cohorts started to offer me rides home. He asked me in a very direct and polite way if I needed help getting home. I felt obligated to say yes because I could not find a good enough reason to decline his offer. I also realized that saying “no” would not stop him from asking me again. I had to admit that I was really struggling to get to and from school.

Although I accepted the rides home, for several months I often felt guilty and worried that I was being an inconvenience to him. His day started much earlier than mine and he lived much farther away from the campus than I did.

By the end of the first semester, I was diagnosed with lupus. I later learned that my headaches were the result of Raynaud’s Syndrome, which causes a strong sensitivity to the cold. The diagnosis was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, as I began to learn how to live with a chronic illness. The gift of the car rides home gave me a broader vision of how my life could be as I lived with lupus if I graciously accepted help, in both big and small ways, from other people.

The rides also gave me a chance to enjoy school, make friends, and provided me the opportunity to accomplish a long-time goal. I also avoided the painful headaches and reduced my lupus symptoms. After I graduated and realized how much my friend helped me out, I thanked him. From his response, I realized that accepting help gives the person offering help the chance to feel pride that they have made a difference, whether big or small, in another person’s life.

Whenever someone offers to open a door, put away the dishes, or give me a ride, I always to try to accept their offer. I’ll admit that accepting help is not always easy. Through my journey as a lupus patient, I have grown enough so that I don’t worry about appearing weak or overly dependent. I realize that no one makes it in this life without help.

What matters is that the legacy that we leave is not that we did everything by ourselves. It is that we made the connections with our families, friends, and even complete strangers that made a positive difference in our lives. Those connections are enriched when we accept the gift of help.

Lil has a pal who is "in awe of her courage" and isn't afraid to say so

The most supportive thing that a friend has ever done for me just happened this past weeked: She posted a blog entry about CFIDS/FM awareness, and how it has affected me. When I came across this line: "I am in awe of her courage" I started to cry. 

Because, in her acknowledging my illness and how much it has impacted my life, I finally felt heard. By putting it out there for everyone to read, she showed me that I am not invisible (even though my diseases sometimes may be), and that she has been paying attention. Having had so many other people in my life who either never cared enough to stay involved or deliberately abandoned me when my illness became such a major part of my life, knowing that she feels this way is amazing and validating and heartwarming.

She included a lot of the facts and links to more info about CFIDS/FM, helping to combat the fact that the public is misinformed about these diseases, helping to advocate for me (because sometimes you feel like you just can't educate one more person right now!) My friend didn't have to tell everybody anything about my illness or raise awareness on her blog—she chose to do it, and that makes it even better.

This friend has done so much to support me in so many ways, in the short time we've really known each other, but the fact that she cared enough to do the research, and compose and post this blog post really moved me, and has meant so much.