Essays, Etc.

Depression, Etc. (Trigger Warning)

The weirdest part of having depression is telling other people.

Not that I officially have depression; I’m just disappointed, sad, anxious, or worried almost all the time.

I’m really fun at parties.

I’ve always tried to be honest, but it’s bizarre to explain, not to mention embarrassing. It’s hard to tell someone that you’re upset all the time and thinking of suicide, and don’t know why.

I told some of my friends slowly, one at a time, as though I was coming out as a homosexual. At first I would place it delicately, to see how they would react, but as time went on and I kept hearing “Yeah, I figured,” I decided to have more fun with it.

The worst (or best, depending on how you look at it) way I told someone was probably my mother. I had already told her once already, much more seriously, and it didn’t really do anything. I decided that this time, I would get her attention.

I came into her room and saw her laying in bed. I stared at the ceiling fan.

“You up?”

“Yeah.”

I kept staring at the ceiling fan.

“I uh... I forgot what I was going to say.”

The ceiling fan kept going.

“Oh, right! I’m depressed.”

That didn’t go over well.

There is also a feeling that, when you tell someone, you’re automatically asking for pity from them. I don’t want pity, I don’t really care either way if they decide that it’s important or not.

Along with pity, there is also the inevitable question you will receive from the other party: “Why?”

That is the hardest question to answer.

Hell, I’ve had days where I accidentally buttered my toast too heavily and I thought about killing myself.

I kid, I kid. I put too much toothpaste on my toothbrush; I don’t eat toast.

The oddest part is that, from what I’ve found, many people I know expected that I was this way. I have friends who tell me that I’m the most depressing person they’ve ever met.

“WooWoo,” they say (except they use my real name), “whenever I talk to you I want to cry.”

I’ve been told this on multiple occasions, by totally different people. When I asked what it was that was so depressing about me, I’ve received the answers:

“Your tone of voice.”

“The way you make jokes about awful things.”

“The way you sit.”

“Your facial expression.”

The list goes on.

Apparently, I am just a downright sad person to be around.

Odd thing is, I’ve never noticed, and neither have most of my friends. The few that have, and told me about it, don’t care enough to ask me to get help. I suppose they don’t feel it’s their business, which is fine. When they tell me that they broke up with their boyfriend or girlfriend for the thirteenth time, I’ll just say they’re being depressing and to stop. Then I’ll imagine their head exploding.

But the ones that have not noticed still say that they suspected something was “up” with me. When prodded further, they gave almost identical answers as the ones above, which made me think: am I that person?

That person who, at parties, you’re like “I kind of want to invite them but they’ll be a whiny bitch about going?”

Oh, right, I’m not invited to parties.

That makes sense now.

But, when I walked into my mother’s room and announced my depression, I was not just flippant; I was proud, damn it. It was as though I was yelling “Yes, I’m fucked in the head, but I don’t care! I just need help, that’s all. I’m not asking for acceptance.”

Once we reach that point, the point where you walk into a room, stare at a ceiling fan, and tell your mother your most embarrassing, dark secret, you’ve reached that point. That point where people either stop talking to you because of it, or when they start talking to you and asking questions because you’re so damn proud, and you scream the answers to them until they’re shouting their secrets at the ceiling fan, too.