Nobody wants to read about depression. Because it’s depressing. But I’m writing about it anyway, because writing about how I feel is what I do when I feel like garbage.
And that’s exactly how depression makes you feel – like a sack of shit. It doesn’t matter how much confidence you have or whatever good things may be happening in your life; depression knocks the wind out of your sails and leaves you feeling like an emotionally deflated balloon.
It also makes you tired. I can get ten hours of sleep, wake up and drink two cups of strong coffee, and be able to go right back to bed. The funny thing about sleeping is that for whatever reason, it actually makes you feel good; therefore, sleep is preferable to the misery you feel when you’re awake.
Depression is a marathon of survival. It’s been almost seven months since my psychotic episode, and I still have yet to find the right combination of medication to subdue the crushing depression that has followed. The first medication didn’t work, the second I was allergic to, the third (which I’m currently on) makes me restless as hell. I’ve been given secondary medications to try and combat the restlessness, but none of them have done anything except make me even more tired.
Depression is a thief. I used to love working out; now, I barely have the energy to go for a walk. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy, or even like myself to be honest. Where I have gone I have no idea, but what has been left in its place is a big void of…nothing.
How can you write about nothing? You can’t really. So depression has also stolen from me the one of the very few things that still makes me happy: writing.
I got a job finally, but instead of being happy about it (and I should be thrilled) depression makes me not care in the least. In fact, I’m thinking all sorts of negative things about it and how I probably won’t like it at all.
This isn’t normal.
But then again, when you’re depressed, nothing is normal. People tell you to try and think positively; that’s just not possible. Depression clouds your brain like an insidious cancer and turns everything stormy and black.
People tell you to have hope that things will get better. You try, because you want things to get better. But it’s hard to maintain that hope day in and day out when everything just seems to be getting worse. Depression steals hope, as it does everything else.
I want to be happy, I really really do. I hope (or try to) that someday I will be again. Until then, I’ll keep dragging my ass to my psychiatrist and try pill after pill until eventually, something works to combat this shit mental illness.
I’m sorry this is so depressing.