The following is a post written by someone I like to call a friend who I have known online for over 4 years now. Her piece is poignant and relevant, and I think worth re-blogging for others to read.
This is about me. It’s someone else’s depiction of my depression. I find it interesting, among other things.
I don’t talk about depression or anxiety for a couple of reasons.
One, I feel people abuse it. They treat it like a running joke, “having a bad day, lol Xanax.” Two, it’s a serious condition for many, many people and for far too many, it’s a life ending condition. And three, I’ve had bad experiences with it, but for the most part, I’m okay, I don’t need sympathy.
Now, for the past few nights, I’ve laid awake in bed thinking about this, but I wasn’t actually going to say anything because it’s private, and I keep my private life off of the internet. (cough, cough.) But then I read this, and realized a lot of people need someone to relate to, so for those few who might have a mind like mine, I hope this helps you in some way.
When I was first diagnosed with depression, I had gone to the doctor simply for anxiety. It was a weird seasonal thing at first. I couldn’t use a certain lotion in the spring because it smelled like last summer, or fabric softener reminded me of a time in my life I couldn’t pinpoint. This started to catch on with more and more items, the way I washed my hair, the breeze outside, the way someone sounded when they sneezed, the size of a textbook. So many things would make me freeze up, feel sick, not want to do anything. However, when I was explaining this to my doctor, talking about how many pages a textbook had, it brought me to tears. It wasn’t just anxiety, it was depression, too.
I know this sounds dramatic and fake. NO ONE GETS EMOTIONAL OVER HOW SOMEONE SNEEZES. Trust me, it doesn’t and won’t make sense to the people hearing about it or the people experiencing it for the first time. The people who suffer from it can feel it, but we can’t control it.
So, here’s the thing. I’m not pulling out excuses, I see what was written about me, yeah I’m a horrible person, whatever. I’d rather be a conscious horrible person, than a person who has an unconscious behavior disorder. But I don’t choose to be depressed and I also don’t choose to care about trite stuff like a whiny blog post, because I have to keep my brain in line so I don’t become a sobbing recluse again. This goes for everyone out there who suffers, too, you don’t have to worry about what people are saying, thinking, or doing. Just worry about yourself for a while, ok?
People who don’t suffer from depression, won’t understand it, I know I’ve said that a few times, but remember that. (And I don’t say “suffer” lightly, itis suffering. Your whole body hurts, your brain doesn’t work, you’re tired until you try to sleep and then you’re wide awake. You want to laugh, but instead all you can do is cry. You feel like crying and you just get angry, so angry, angry because there is nothing you can do to make yourself feel normal. You do something you absolutely love and you start to feel good and then you wonder why you feel good, you shouldn’t feel good, this isn’t right, you get anxious, you get nauseous, and you cry.)
So yeah, I’m bummed. I cried for four hours straight the other day. Four hours. That’s by no way a brag, but I’ve encountered deaths that haven’t hit me like that, and it was all because someone laughed at my dental x-rays a certain way that didn’t sit well with me. Go on, cry, and not a half assed cry, but the gasping for air, quivering lip, use an entire box of tissue, real life cry for half of your work day and tell me that you would optionally do that again. Because it’ll happen, I’m just waiting for it.
The funny thing is (and I’m crying as I’m typing this right now) for the last month and a half, I’ve been a recluse, avoiding people, avoiding daylight, avoiding San Francisco, staying up until 5 am, just so I can have an excuse as to why I am so miserable during the day, and all this time only two people outside of my immediate family asked me if I was okay. Two people. One I talk to maybe once a week, and one I haven’t talked to in months. But they picked up on it, and they noticed a change in my behavior and they didn’t jump to conclusions focused around themselves or their lives. Yeah, that’s selfish to say, and yes, I am being 100% selfish here, but the signs are always there, you just need to look up for half a second and let it hit you, because it will.
People who are depressed most likely won’t tell you they’re depressed.
So the next time you’re writing, “It’s one of those strange situations where there was and is no opportunity for reason, no answers, & definitely no conclusion,” pause for one moment and think, hey, I bet she cried in the shower because her new razor works so much better than her old one, and maybe this whole situation really isn’t about me, is it?