There are probably thousands of blog posts about depression. It’s quite a common thing to suffer from, but everyone describes it slightly differently. I’ve spoken to a few different people who also have/have had depression and they all experienced a little differently from me. Sometimes I’ll read a post and identify with it almost completely and other times I’ll understand what they mean, but it’s not exactly what I’m going through.
I’ve had depression since I was about ten years old. At thirteen I started self-harming. At fourteen I told my mother about this, she told me not to be such a drama queen and to grow up. At fifteen I got called to the school counselor’s office because my grades had dropped and some of my teachers were worried about me, my mother told me never to speak to them again because CPS would take me away and that would kill her. At seventeen I finally manage to convince my mother that this was serious for me to need professional help. At seventeen I tried to kill myself. At nineteen I left the country and discovered a lot about myself. At twenty-one, after a year and a half away and nearly two years of not self harming, I returned home. At twenty-one I started cutting again. At twenty-one I want to kill myself again. At twenty-one no one in my family wants to acknowledge this. At twenty-one I am alone.
My depression centers around my family and my upbringing. I have something called Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD) from growing up in an abusive, highly stressful environment. My stress levels are at a constant high, which means when something stressful happens, instead of going into High Stress Mode, like a normal person would, I peak into Panic Mode. I’m on anti-depressants which help a little and I have been seeing a psychologist, which has helped a lot.
I’ve had depression for nearly 12 years now, more than half my life. But I’m not used to it. I don’t think it’s possible to get used to it. It’s like living with a little, sad creature all the time. Every time you’re feeling good the creature pokes its nose onto your shoulder and weighs you down. When you’re already feeling down it crawls onto your lap and holds you there. Whenever someone says something the little creature scrambles their words, putting a negative spin on it. “They’re just saying that because they feel sorry for you.” “They don’t really mean it.” And sometimes when you’re just coasting along it tells you other things. “I bet if you killed yourself no one would care. How long do you think it would take anyone to even notice if you were dead? No one would cry at your funeral. No one would even go.” And then something bad happens. “See? You’re worthless. This was all your fault. You did this. Why do you even bother? You’re such a failure.” When I was thirteen I discovered that by cutting myself the little creature wouldn’t talk for a while. The more I cut, the less it talked. “If you want me to go away, you know what to do.” And after I realised that, I realised there was one way to make it go away forever. “Swallow the pills. Step in front of the train. Cut a little deeper. We’ll both be better off for it.”
This little creature is something that I deal with every day, but it’s also something that I can’t get a handle of. It seems like every time I do it evolves and changes. Becomes something new and trickier.
Depression is difficult.
Depression is painful.
Depression is exhausting.
It’s even harder alone. Depression is hard to talk about. People don’t want to hear that I want to kill myself. They don’t want to see the cuts on my arms. It’s confronting and awkward. But that makes it a taboo. If we don’t want to talk about it, it just becomes harder and harder to get help. We need to be able to be open about it, to accept that mental illness is a real thing that real people suffer from and that by opening up about it, it will make the fight easier. For everyone.