My earliest memories of stifling depression go back to the age of 7.
By stifling, I mean the kind of clinical depression that courses through your veins, colors every thought, and places such a metaphorical weight on you that you feel unable to move in both literal and figurative ways.
Depression is a disease of inaction, of paralysis. At least, that's how it manifests for me.
It's a part of myself I have hated, a part of myself I've hidden and combatted — with drugs, with sex, with working too much, talking too much, taking on more and more … and I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.
Because the more I do, the more I can hide the depression that's lurking beneath it all.
When it comes to other people who are struggling with mental health issues, I am empathetic; I am patient and compassionate.
But when it comes to my own depression, I am none of those things. I am the opposite — impatient, angry, intolerant.
Getting a handle on my depression took a long damn time. Today, I am on the proper medication; I have tools and knowledge that I didn't have even 10 years ago. Because of that, I have this unrealistic expectation that it's solved, and when my depression crops up despite all my armor, I feel confused, angry, and anxious — but most of all, disappointed in myself.
I recognize intellectually that it's unreasonable to hold myself accountable for brain chemistry that I hardly understand, let alone control. But I do. I feel responsible for it.
I also recognize that making yourself culpable for something you have no control over is cruel.
If I had survived cancer and the cancer came back, would I blame myself? If I'm honest, I might. Which is so messed up…
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