High Functioning Depression is Just Depression with Sprinkles on Top

Olga J.

I was thirty-two, running for city council in the third largest city in Indiana with no political experience.

I was also pastoring a church and giving tours of a historic town where I enthusiastically explained how the bricks known as Dutch biscuits were made in the 1800s. Also I was getting divorced.

My whole life looked like a dare.

Every morning I woke up in the new house, I stretched, ran, fed my dog, showered, put on my makeup, did my hair, and drove thirty minutes to the historic town. On the drive I noticed the height of the corn, the blue of the sky, and thought about driving my car into a tree[1].

I never moved my steering wheel. But every day I glanced at the same tree and wondered if I could just be done. The rest of my day I shook hands, kissed babies, and performed enthusiasm about 19th century utopias for people who were mostly there because their spouses had insisted.

I was so depressed. And nobody knew. Including me.

In case you care…. rumor has it the historic town had a guy from corning fiberglass insulation come out and grade the dutch biscuits based on a modern insulation system and even he was impressed. Less impressive are the wasps that take up residence in said biscuits during the summer.

High-Functioning Depression