I'm going to tell you a story. My story. And like all stories, it has a beginning…
It began with a…tough situation at home, which triggered the anxiety. It's hard to explain the exact feeling. It's kind of like where you're leaning back on your chair, go just a bit too far, and suddenly, you're about to fall backward. Anxiety. That sudden jolt of panic inside your chest, that half-second spike that makes you fling your hands forward and grab the desk in front of you to steady yourself. That chaotic moment—the moment when you curse in your head, the moment that you brace yourself to feel the imminent pain. It's that. Only it didn't last for half a second, for even a minute.
It lasted years.
I thought I'd just have to live with it until the situation improved. And they did. And I lived through it. However, even when I did, anxiety still clung to me like some sort of twisted shadow. That feeling could come when I was alone in a room, sitting comfortably, with nothing to do and a clear day ahead. The world would spin and tumble and I'd want to put my hands out to grab a desk, but there was nothing there. Nothing to grab onto.
And so depression's cold tendrils crept in through anxiety's hot trickery. It sat at the back of my mind and laughed at me.
"Why are you even trying? It's useless, anyway!"
And when you're fighting a non-existent force from a nonexistent chair, it's hard to argue. So I sat and waited for it to finish. But it didn't finish.
It wasn't that I couldn't feel happiness, nor was it like wallowing in an eternal pit of self-deprecation and worry. I did feel sad, but the harshness of depression is that it makes the process of living excruciating. It's like walking through thick treacle, every movement you make pushed against your life and held back by sticky tar. Suffocating and exhausting. Even when there's no energy left, you still have to walk. There is no 'stop.' There is no 'give up.' There is only 'go.' This same tar is in your brain, slowing your thoughts, numbing your feelings, so even when there's no energy left, you can never stop thinking. Everything feels overwhelming.
Everything.
Even the small things. It was one task in particular for me—washing my clothes. It was a mountain, and even to think about it required so much energy. I could wash my clothes, but then I'd have to pick up the dirty clothes, take them to the washer, open the washer, put the clothes in the washer, close the washer, open the detergent bottle, and put the detergent in. It was just too much. So the clothes sat there. And you know it's absurd. And I know it's absurd. Everyone else can do it no trouble, so I thought: maybe I was just lazy, I should push on, I'm a strong person, and all that nonsense that I didn't truly believe.
Now, you can push yourself enough to look like you're functioning properly. It wasn't like some sort of cliché story where some kid goes completely insane, wears only black, slits wrists, et cetera, et cetera.
Ha. Yeah, right.
On the outside, I was normal enough. But on the inside? Different story. I was decaying, burning, malfunctioning. My mind was ablaze trying to grab a desk and my soul was swallowed in the bitter treacle that threatened to choke me. The worst thing was that I never felt at peace. It didn't matter if the morning was beautiful, if the morning dew caught just perfectly in the sunlight, or if serenity was searched for.
Peace. Did. Not. Come.
It was torture, and my own mind was the one waterboarding me.
And then, there was the whole matter of wanting to disappear.
I didn't want to kill myself. That's messy and probably involved going out of the house, a body, sad friends, and everything else that I wouldn't be able to escape from.
Also, I didn't want to die knowing that I had committed murder. The sweet, morbid, sinister irony was that I was my own killer. The one who held the weapon in the end. And that made it all my fault.
I just wanted to be dead. My brain fantasized about it. That sweet release of deep, restful unfeelingness. It sounded so sweet. So…desirable. Tempting.
Beautiful.
It seemed so much better than existing like this. If only, I thought, there weren't people who loved me. It's a sick twisted logic you don't have control over—it…it just…all makes sense.
I didn't even know I was depressed. I thought what I was feeling was justified—because life was so obviously meaningless because I would be better off dead.
…Right?
It had been a slow decline into darkness—the light was never switched off by a flick of a hand. It was turned down, bit by bit, the way music is turned down and the way warm liquid slowly cools, its warmth seeping into the air around it. I had no moment of sudden understanding, no spark of fear, never realizing I couldn't see properly. My eyes had adjusted to the dark as the light ever so slowly faded, my mind replacing reality with its own twisted night vision, of strange shadows and dark half-reasonable and half-completely-crazy ideas.
No, I won't go out today…No, I don't need to do my essay yet; it can wait…No, they probably don't want to hang around with me anyway…No, It's not worth it, I'm not worth it…I. Am. Worthless.
No. No. No. No, no, no, no, no!
So I hurt myself. Mostly to feel more…relieved? I'm not sure.
Maybe I just wanted to feel something. Anything.
But, to be fair—it did do something quite significant. When I saw what I had done to my own skin, I was hit with reality. The lights turned on, full-force. My eyes were momentarily blinded but soon adjusted to the new alignments of the surrounding.
"This is what sick people do, right? Am I sick?"
Am I sick?
The thought turned over a few times in my head and twisted into a lump in my throat. That was the first time I fully realized just how dark the light had gotten, and just how entirely the tendrils of meaningless sorrow were encasing me. Despite the crippling depression, despite feeling suicidal, despite being unable to properly care for myself, I had entirely extracted the thought of illness from my mind. I'd just thought I was lazy, or sad, or worthless, or…I don't even know. But I looked at the blood, the damage I'd done…
I needed help.
So I went to a doctor, and yes—I was sick. So the slow process began. Full of relapse and recovery. It's not over, but it will be someday. I promised that much to myself. It's more complicated than I can express in words, no matter the sheer quantity of them. But now…it's different. I can recognize the signs, know what to look out for, and I have learned how to manage my sinister condition. I took a break at the start of this year, didn't do anything irrational or unplanned. Just…focused. Focused on getting better. Focused on giving myself a steady foundation to stand on for the rest of the year.
Focus. Focus. Focus!
I repeated the single word until its sound unhinged from its meaning.
Depression is so disgusting. It's atrocious. It's despicable. It erodes your you-ness, and the qualities you like in yourself are taken over by the darkness—even the things you love and enjoy.
It is not your fault. Sure, it can feel like it is, and others may think it is. To be honest, that is what I hate the most about depression. Other people underestimating it. I hate that some people think depression shows weakness. Because it doesn't show weakness. It shows victory. Pure, blissful victory—especially when I got up, stretched, put on a smile, and did the freaking washing.
People congratulate me for creating a piece of art or running my own business. No one congratulated me when I did my washing. But really, in my darkest hour, it was one of my greatest achievements. And, on some future day when I'm feeling bad, putting another load of washing on will be a big achievement again.
I know, I know. It's undeniably preternatural. It's inscrutable. It's weird.
And it's totally AWESOME.
Guess who this is!