I’ve been re-reading some of my posts and the overwhelming theme seems to be self-pity… No one cares, I’m so useless, no one loves me… Ugh, with that attitude, is it any wonder?
But today has been an OK day – just a welling of tears this morning and nothing else. I’ve not done anything except a little bit of work on the computer and beginning to organise my bags for my trip. But overall, a decent day.
Being depressed doesn’t mean being miserable all the time. I’m sure “depressed” means slightly different things for everyone but for me being depressed means sad a lot of the time, hours of crying and even longer hours of hopeless and inward-looking hatred. So that today I didn’t cry is a good day.
It also means fear. It’s difficult to remember that I am the same person who left home and went abroad, alone, for the first time to live; that this same person had a panic attack at Copenhagen airport a couple of months ago simply because she couldn’t remember which train station she needed to travel to.
It also means isolation. Not shyness, shyness is a different part of me and one I had learnt to cope with and work around. Isolation is different. Isolation is hiding in my bedroom with the lights off because I can’t bear to interact with my flatmates. Isolation is crying hysterically in a locked room instead of going out for a meal with work colleagues. Isolation is knowing you drag people down and not wanting to keep doing it but being flooded with the need to talk through problems and share the burden. And with it a self-loathing that is all-encompassing and that reminds me that I am isolated because I am worthless. (because I’m boring, no fun, fat, ugly, selfish, a burden…)
It means heaviness and darkness, no hope, no future and no desire for a future. A simple wish for non-existence; a lack of interest in what’s to come and a hope that it doesn’t.
It’s putting on a “normal person” suit in the morning and siting uncomfortably in it at work and in company, hoping it won’t split and expose the ugliness and the emptiness underneath. It’s falling out of it and going back to being shrivelled and hideous when alone.
it’s exhaustion beyond simply not getting a decent night’s sleep (oh, it’s insomnia too). It’s when getting out of bed and having a shower is a victory, even though you got straight back into bed, soaking wet, and stayed there for the rest of the day. Because at least you had a shower.
And depression for me is also self harm. This comes in waves. I can cut every day for days and then I can go weeks without even considering it. Sometimes a lapse is isolated – I cut a few days ago for the first time in a couple of weeks and haven’t done so since – and sometimes it’s prolonged. The desire is unpredictable. Sometimes it comes from nowhere. I am not in crisis and yet something compels me. Sometimes it’s a means of getting through something – for a while it was a morning habit to focus and get ready to go to work – and sometimes it’s a desire to do something to transfer the mental pain into something tangible. Sometimes I can resist. Sometimes I will sit with my razor in my hand and do nothing. Sometimes I think it over and then do it and sometimes it’s sudden and unexpected. The scars sit on my arms and stomach, legs and thighs. Some are faded, none are gone. I wonder if they will. I can think of no excuse for them.