Being a (high-)functioning depressive, with an added side of high-functioning anxiety just for fun, is a double-edged sword: on the one hand, there is relief that no one realises and on the other, you feel fake. How bad can I be compared to others if I can work and walk and talk and smile?
It means hoping someone will ask if you’re OK and if you need any help while at the same time, dreading that someone will notice and ask if you’re OK or need any help.
It’s when the simplest “how are you?” becomes a question to long for and to fear.
It means that every day you battle to be successful and shiny and to be the best you can while all your mind can do is remind you that:
You are useless.
You are pointless.
You are a bad friend/daughter/sister/aunt/co-worker/cousin/person.
You are ugly.
You are cowardly.
You are pathetic.
You are weak.
You can do nothing well and nothing right.
You are stupid.
You are slow.
You have no talent.
Everyone is better.
You are worthless.
But…at least you hide it well.