Things no one told me about depression
Last two weeks were really tough for me. Recovery from my depression seems distant and unattainable, so I decided to put my feelings into words. This is my description of how it is to be depressed.
Depression is boring. Like really boring. Nothing ever happens in your life, your days blur and look painfully plain: you lay in bed, you stay inside, you sleep, sometimes you cry. It seems you are stuck in a time loop, day after day the same mundane surroundings, the same shallow activities. Your life became a never-ending series of daunting tasks you really have no desire to complete. You wait for something, but no one knows for what, including yourself. You just wait and quietly dare to hope that tomorrow you will feel better.
Time and space warp. You can't remember if you shower yesterday or three days ago. You forget why you entered the room. You don't feel hungry, but you can't recall if you ate dinner. Or breakfast, for that matter. Your private universe seems to shrink to the four walls of your room. Everything slows down, and even then you feel you can't catch up with the world.
It's not always being sad. Sometimes it's anger and being on the verge of tears, and sometimes it's overpowering numbness. It's restless and over-analyzing everything, and sometimes it's frightening paralysis. It's guilt, and anxiety, and self-loathing, and distress, and constant fatigue. You're a whirlwind of emotions and a hollow pit at the same time. You mislaid the hope for a better tomorrow.
Depression silences you. You don't have the energy to speak up, so you slowly lose your voice. You can't reach out, you think you must suffer in silence. In times of the greatest need, when the simple act of supporting you could make such a difference, you are unable to ask for attention. You can't give vent to the gravity of your pain. As much as society wants to believe in that, you can't turn your sadness into heartwarming art. You don't even have the energy to consider creating anything, because you think you are worthless. And such a pitiful creature is unable to give form to beauty.
Fighting with your own brain is tiring. Sleeping 12+ hours doesn't mean that you are well-rested. It also doesn't mean that you won't take naps during the day. And that after waking up from them, you still won't be exhausted. You feel weary, but you have no idea why – you certainly don't do anything significant.
You are not in control of your emotions. You feel awful and that's it, no way out of it, no way around it. It seems impossible to "cheer up", and hearing such statements only makes you feel guilty. Because you think you should have been able to express something else. To just switch your mood TV and turn on a different channel, that would be a dream scenario. Instead, you are constantly apologizing for existing and spoiling other people's moods.
Depression lies. It makes you feel worthless and guilty. You think that if you feel so hopeless and despaired, you must have done something to deserve it. And there's plenty of mistakes in your past. It locks you in your own mind and persuades it's for your own good. You believe it - why wouldn't you, it's your last friend. You can only think of yourself. You feel impure and beyond saving. It seems there's no hope.
Laying on the couch in your pyjamas is better than being dead. Crying for hours in the shower is better than being dead. Staring in the screen all day is better than being dead. It will always be better than being dead.
It's not alluring. It's beyond my comprehension why anyone would romanticize it (damn you, Bukowski!), but overwhelming sadness and self-loathing is not beautiful. It's gut-wrenching. Depression makes lovely people believe that they are hideous, and I hate it.
You have to celebrate little things because you are incapable of functioning like a normal human being. You brushed your teeth? Well done! Changed your sweaty clothes? That's great! Walked outside? What an achievement! You feel like a needy brat who asks for constant praises, and you hate yourself for it, and you feel stupid. And a bit grateful, because someone notices your struggle.
Antidepressants are not evil. They are not scary personality-altering drugs. They are not happy pills or a source of ‘artificial' happiness. Antidepressants are a type of medication designed to make you feel better when you are ill. They are just like any other medicine. They are not a sign of weakness. And taking them is your personal choice and no one else's business.
You can get attached to depression. It's your constant companion during the day, and it's your bedmate at night, so it's natural you form a relationship with it. Sometimes you've been so long depressed, you don't remember how it is to be free of its weight. You forget there's a sun, and birdsongs, and laughter. You've started to believe this void is your destined reality. You are scared of change, so you cling to it. Because as silly as that sounds, this depression is a safe house for you. You lived here so long that you know every corner of this dark cave. The vastness and freedom of free world overwhelm you. You prefer to stay here.
Recovery is freaking hard. It's long and complicated and sometimes seems pointless to keep insisting for. It's hardly a straightforward path – more like a bandy road, full of ups and downs, through the dark forest. In winter. Wearing slippers. It's basically never-ending series of playing tag with your brain. It doesn't happen over days or weeks. It's a gradual process, like with leaves falling down from autumn trees. One by one they dropped throughout the season and suddenly you realize there's none of them. The branches are bare. Then, on your good days, you will spend your precious well-being time on worrying how long it will last. And you will get knocked down. And you will say with satisfaction, I knew it!. And you will grit your teeth and stand up again. And you will get knocked down again. And again. And again. And again. And again. It won't get easier, but you will get up quicker every time because you remember to bring with yourself a rope to pull yourself up.
You want a manual about how to get your past life back, but you only have this stupid "I'm survivor" T-shirt. You feel stronger but cannot help to wonder when you will meet your foe again. This time, you will be better prepared for it. You can see the horizon.
I wish someone told me: "You have depression, but depression doesn't have you. It's an illness, not an identity. You are more than a medical term. You are more than a noun."
