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ROBERT SIEGEL, host:

I'm Robert Siegel.

MICHELE NORRIS, host:

And I'm Michele Norris, and this is ALL THINGS CONSIDERED from NPR News.

(Soundbite of music)

Unidentified Man #1: I believe in figuring out my own way to do things.

Unidentified Woman #1: I believe in the power of numbers.

Unidentified Man #2: I believe in barbeque.

Unidentified Woman #2: Well, I believe in friendliness.

Unidentified Man #2: I believe in mankind.

Unidentified Man #3: This I believe.

SIEGEL: For our Monday series, This I Believe, we invite you to send us statements of your personal beliefs. Today's comes from Andy Blowers, who lives with his wife and son in Fairfax, Virginia. He's employed as a software developer, and he's working toward a graduate degree at George Mason University. Here is our series curator, independent producer Jay Allison.

JAY ALLISON: People who send us their writing are sometimes compelled to do so by hearing the beliefs of others. Andy Blowers said he heard other essayists talk about their beliefs in daily pleasures and celebrations. But he felt he couldn't write something like that. Blowers has clinical depression, and is forced to find his belief in the context of his illness. Here's Andy Blowers with his essay for This I Believe.

Mr. ANDY BLOWERS (Software Developer from Fairfax, Virginia; Suffered from Depression): There's a wretched place depression drags me off to, after taking control of my thoughts and feelings. It's the place where the longing for relief mutes every other desire, even the desire to wake up in the morning. There are days when I wonder if I'll lose everything: my job, my relationships, my last ditch of sanity. It feels as though I'm breathing hot, black smoke.

Yet I believe the same depressions that pin me to the mat so often also serve a bigger purpose in my life. They don't come empty-handed. I believe the purpose of suffering is to strengthen us and help us understand the suffering of others. At 16, my first episode hit me hard enough to think I'd literally gone to hell. Now, at 35, when I start dreaming of haunted houses and worrying uncontrollably about the future, I know another episode is looming. I've got a week's notice, maybe two.

And then, it's as if I'm drifting off to exile inside myself, with only a shell remaining. It used to be that rising from the ash after the depression cleared was like resurrection. The burial over, I catch myself laughing or looking forward to the next day. I'd pig out at my favorite deli. But now, when I look closely, I find mental illness leaving other significant gifts in its wake, things I didn't discern when I was younger. The discovery is like that scene from the "Matrix," when Neo finally comprehends his identity.

Through the whole film, he's been beaten up by evil agents, but the fighting transforms him into a warrior. And at the right time, he understands and uses his power. He's peaceful, even when confronting an enemy. I believe my own years of struggling with depression have left me with similar gifts: inner strength and calm I can rely on, diminished fear and compassion. I believe the painful nights that close in on all of us in some form are the cocoons from which we might shed our weaknesses.

I believe pain tells us something critical about ourselves in life, that developing strength and empathy and bravery is more essential than our personal comfort. And when I think of it like that, I'm more willing to accept suffering on its terms. That's important, because if my pattern holds consistent, my next episode is due to arrive soon. I live with this reality, but I'm no longer afraid of it. The depression has, in the end, equipped me for its next visit.

And that's enough. Of course, I'll take my medicine. I'll talk to my gifted psychiatrist. But when the dark does come, I'll stand up and breathe deeply, knowing I'm becoming the person I'm supposed to be.

ALLISON: Andy Blowers, with his essay For This I Believe. Blowers said he thought there would be some risk in making this public declaration about his mental illness, but in order to honor the bravery he writes about, he felt he ought to do it. We hope you'll consider sending your own statement of belief. Find out more at npr.org. For This I Believe, I'm Jay Allison.

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