Confessions

Anomaly

They say depression is a silent killer. I'd like to think of it as an anomaly- something that is different than that of the expected. But, I also guess it would depend on how you look at it. I've once heard it referred to as a "living nightmare", however that isn't necessarily true in my case. Life is a nightmare, to me at least. Everything about life- the expectations, the judgement, the sicknesses, horrible shootings and bombings, expenses, deaths, heartbreaks, unfairness- is a nightmare. Therefore, I wish to die young, before the sickness or bad fortune or government can kill me off. Why die in such a boring manner? It would be an honor to die boldly, and more importantly, by my own will. Now, I'm not saying I'm gonna kill myself, not yet anyways. I'm trying to convey my idea that dying on my terms is the way I wanna die; wether I choose to jump off of a building or get hit by a car or I get shot. I'm terrified of getting old, I don't wanna die old or of disease, I wanna die young. I wouldn't want my obituary to contain that I had cancer or Alzheimer's. To hell with that, right?

But depression. It's got this...this grasp on me. It holds me so near and dear to it, you'd almost think it loved me. Depression isn't a person, and if it was, it sure as hell wouldn't be capable of love. Now now, before I continue on, let me get one thing straight, okay? Depression is not all the bullshit that is all over posters at your local doctors office or therapist's office, and it most definitely isn't how society makes it seem. It doesn't make you mutilate yourself or wanna harm others or kill yourself or start to binge eat or develop an eating disorder. It doesn't do any of that, so clear that idea of your head now.

Before I continue on, I will try to explain depression as best I can. Imagine a tiny, solid black figure sitting on your shoulder- you don't even know it's there. So, naturally assumed, you're probably feeling a little blue, and that is represented by the minute, black figure. As days pass, you get a little bit more sad, and the figure grows a little bit larger, weighing you down. This would be your sadness starting to weigh you down. You're beginning to just be glum all of the time, and if how you're feeling could be a weather report, it would just be grey, cloudy skies. Still, however, you don't notice this increasingly larger black figure upon your shoulder, much like how you often times won't notice that you're feeling more and more down. Eventually, this black figure is large enough it crawls around your back, and holds onto you around your neck, much like the way a child does when you give them a piggy-back ride. This figure, still unnoticed but having its effect, grows larger and larger, overbearing your body, much larger than you. Now, stop! Imagine you're in a room one day, this large black figure still on you like a giant, mutant tick. You still don't notice it, but you feel like your life is just wasting away, and you're most definitely unhappy, and you can't pinpoint why or how unhappy you are. Same day, this figure grows uncontrollably larger and larger, filling in the room around you until everything is engulfed in black. And, finally, it suffocates you. It swallows you and everything around you, eating you alive. Oddly enough, depression feeds on your soul. It takes every bit of happiness in your life and blots it out, leaving you with nothing, until you are nothing.

Everyone is different, though, and thus their depression may be at different stages in said process or it could be worse. Over all, I would say I've described it pretty well, yeah? I've got an odd outlook on life, the way I see things and put logic together in my head is like a large, complex puzzle. If people, in any case, friends, stranger or indifferent, were to be able to read my mind or somehow hack into my thought process, they'd think I'm flat out insane or bullshitting. But I'm not. I know that the way I see things is right. I cannot begin to tell you of the numerous times I've attempted to explain my thoughts to another person, and it was only a fail. A huge, big, fat fail. That isn't what's important, though. What is important, in fact, is that life is all about seeing things logically and efficiently in order to deal with everyday life. Which is why, throughout this writing, I'll do my best to explain how I see things. What good this will do you, I have not a clue. But, hell, when there are people talking about their sexcapades or manipulative scandals all over the place, a little food for thought couldn't hurt. Right?

I've done explained how I see depression, now I guess I'll explain how I see the way depression effects my everyday life. Warning, this isn't gruesome, but it may not be for the faint of heart to read. Still, I encourage you to continue reading.

Depression began to take over my life around the July before my freshman year. From there, it's fluctuated from good, to bad, to worse, to decent, but it never leaves. No matter how much I laugh and smile, my depression is always there. It's kind of like mononucleosis, or "the kissing disease". You get it, it gets better, but the virus stays in your system for forever. It haunts you on your weak days, stays in the back of your mind scratching at your brain for attention on the good days. That's what it's like for me, except harder. Everything I do is for my mama. Eventually I got so bad that it scared me, but merely a meek child I was. Anyways, I told her how depressed I was. I told her how I had horrid visualizations of killing myself, how I didn't want to be around anyone or live anymore, I was so tired of everything. Worry not, I'll go into detail of these things later. Continuing on, she sent me to a therapist. I must say I was quite pissed off, and since then I have formulated more open minded ideas and opinions of the world. Moreover, I had realized she was doing the only thing she could do for her child. I had realized that she was afraid too, in fact she was more afraid than I was.

On a good note, I'll spare you a lot of the details of how my therapy had gone and still goes, as it's quite the norm now. I attend therapy every Tuesday. Occasionally, it's every other Tuesday and it, rather, is intensely boring and seriously awkward. When I first started going, my mom attended with me- mostly for filling out papers and initial shit. It was kinda ridiculous to be honest. Then, instantaneously, things got in depth. I had described to the therapist and my mom how I'd imagined scenarios of hanging myself in the high school, taking a bunch of pills to go to sleep and never wake up, shooting myself, and even jumping off of a local bridge. I had never seen my mother more, I don't know, horrified?- of something I had said. I know it made her afraid for me, which broke my heart. It was that exact day my mother had found out I also starved myself and occasionally self harmed. Keep in mind, depression does not cause these things, it only leads to them. Anyhow, that's how it went. I kept attending my regular sessions and I kept "improving". Little does anyone know, possibly except one of my friends, that I'm in that state of depression again. I just lie to the therapist, I'm still waiting to be discharged, and I don't want my mama to have to worry about me. I know, it's stupid and I should tell my psych everything, right? Wrong. Over my long term treatment, I've broadened my opinions and ideas of therapy and therapists. I don't believe in it anymore. It's all bullshit.