Come on, we’ve all been there. Lights off, door closed, fetal position on the closet floor. Body-wracking but silent sobs, because, for fuck’s sake, why must you constantly ruin everything for everyone?
Oh wait. You mean this doesn’t happen to everybody? It’s not a normal Friday afternoon activity? Of course it isn’t. Other people aren’t as fucked up as you, you lazy piece of worthless shit, why can’t you control your Goddamned emotions?
And so it goes. To say I’ve battled Depression for decades is to over-glorify the term battle. For much of the time, the fight has been so one-sided that it would be laughable, were I not too busy trying desperately to fend off thoughts of suicide. Depression knows everything about me, knows exactly what to say to bring me to my knees. At once mocking me for thinking that I’m special enough to have something diagnosably wrong and chastising me for a long list of faults, mostly rooted in laziness and lack of value as a human being, the phrases that bombard my consciousness are devastating.
Depression is a liar and an abuser. Depression feeds on your weakness, knocks you down, and then, when you think it’s as bad as it can get, derides you for your stupidity, convincing you that the problem is not Depression, the problem is you. If you just didn’t suck so much, maybe you wouldn’t be crying. If you weren’t such a lazy piece of shit, you’d get up off the floor and get some work done for once. No wonder nobody likes you, all you do is bring everyone down with your drama addiction, you fucking crybaby.
If Depression were a partner, friends and family members would hold an intervention and demand you break up. Instead, they often side with the bastard. “How can you be so sad when there are wars and famines going on?” “You have to convince yourself to feel better, stop wallowing”¦” “Your mood reflects the energy that you are putting out there. Smile more!”
It’s not like that. Trust me on this one, if I could talk away the bottomless darkness, I would have bullied myself out of it long ago. Instead, I let it wear on for years, trying desperately to hide it so that people wouldn’t know just how lazy and worthless I was, just how weak I was.
I’m still surprised that there are people who don’t feel this way, Depression was so good at convincing me that I was just so utterly worthless that I couldn’t handle what everyone else successfully managed.
But it’s not true. I finally saw Depression for what it is: a lying, manipulative son-of-a-bitch that didn’t deserve my attention. I got help. I got treatment, and even though I occasionally find Depression sneaking up on me and working me over with its cutting phrases, I’m moving on. We’re breaking up.
Depression is treatable. And it is a Goddamned motherfucking liar, and I swear on my mother’s honor that if I find it going after my loved ones, I will beat. it. down. Fuck you, Depression. You aren’t welcome around here anymore.
Looking for advice? Send questions my way. I enjoy ruminating about my own life, but would enjoy ruminating about yours even more.