I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my voice. Not that I can’t speak, yell or hurl invectives at people in traffic — I lost my voice.

You see, when I write, (and I assume this happens with other writers but I’ve oddly not had this conversation before) there’s a narrator in my head. It used to be much like my own voice, snarky yet thoughtful, bordering on deep on a good day. Then I became acquainted with the writing and narrative storytelling of fry cook turned chef, turned television personality, Anthony Bourdain.

As anyone who follows one of the many foodie shows out there, Bourdain recently took his own life while doing what he loved, in a place he loved.

That’s the rub for people who don’t understand — there must have been something earth shatteringly wrong, some event on the horizon, that pushed him over the edge. Was his relationship ending badly? Did he yield to his old addictions and demons? Maybe we’re demanding answers of the symptoms.

Depression is a wasting disease. It settles into your bones and robs you of your ability to concentrate, leaving your thoughts lighting on painful feelings like a dragonfly, only to take off and touch down again. Your feelings of inadequacy. Your feelings of failure, of being a burden, of being so deeply sad and yet unable to focus on why.

There it is, like a floater in your eye — you almost have it in focus and it skitters away to another corner of your vision.

You no longer have interest in the things you love as you feel yourself vanish from the ones you love, worsening the condition and playing tricks with your reason — and they’re powerful tricks. It leaves you alone, in the dark, screaming in a vacuum.

We all see the darkness from time to time but depression holds us there. We lose track of days, of sleep, of food or alcohol or whatever else we consume to try to make it go away. Still, it persists.

And so, Bourdain did what Kate Spade did a week before. There was no bombshell, no giant conspiracy to reveal. They were simply people held too long in the dark.

As a society, we would rather talk about cancer than depression. We talk openly about any range of medical issues without thought but we fear mentioning this killer. Worse, we fear identifying as being affected by it. It makes us weak. It makes us less — or worse, it makes us crazy, unstable and untrustworthy.

People who don’t understand are quick to shoot you a quick, “cheer up,” or my favorite, “snap out of it.” Well, by dingy! That “snap out of it, worked! Thanks doc!” With that, you saunter down the sidewalk whistling Zipidee Do Dah.

Keep in mind that depression is something that happens to you — it does not define you.

I lost my voice last week, but I’m encouraging you to use yours. Talk about it. Call the hotline at (800) 273-8255. The person on the other line may not understand but I assure you they won’t tell you to cheer up. If you prefer something even less personal, text HOME to 741741 any time of the day or night and someone will be there. If you are currently beneath the waves, keep holding your breath, my friend. It gets better — it will pass.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast. He’s been lost, watching reruns of Parts Unknown. He can be reached at [email protected].