Very recently, my mom stumbled upon this little blog of mine. She read some (all?) The posts. A small time later she approached me. “Are you depressed?” she asked. “Of course I am. I have been depressed my whole life!”, is what I wanted to scream. Instead I said, “No, of course not. The poems are old.” She was relieved.
How could explain to my mother the tornado of thoughts and feelings that whirl inside of my head. I honestly can not remember a time when I was what one would call happy. Ever.
The molestation didn’t help. Neither did having my father’s life taken from me when I was a preteen. The rape combined with my dad’s cancer added PTSD to tge depression. But none of these things started it.
When I first started dating my husband, I informed him that I was fucked up. I wake up in the night screaming. I cry for seemingly no reason at all. He said that he could handle it.
He couldn’t. He tries, but he doesn’t get it. No one does. “Your life isn’t that bad.” I have been told that more times than I can count. The problem is that I know my life isn’t so bad anymore. That’s what makes it so bad. There’s nothing worse than having everything that is supposed to make you happy and still being so fucking sad. It confirms everything that I have feared my whole life. It’s me.
I tried to explain it to my husband like this. Sometimes I am relatively even, content. Sometimes, however, my mind starts to take over itself and I start to drown in a black hole of sadness.
Depression is like any black hole. It’s easy to fall into it, but insanely hard to get out. I can see myself slipping farther down, but if I don’t somehow miraculously catch a hold of a life line as I am slipping, then it is too late.
Days, weeks, months will be spent crying until I literally can not. Hating myself with such fury that I tetter on thoughts of suicide. My children have saved my live in the most literal of fashions. One really rough morning I had a razor and was on the verge of suicide when my son, who was about eighteen months at the time, woke up and started crying. His tears snapped me back to reality and I was instantly ashamed of how I had almost abandoned my children in the most cowardly of ways.
To a deeply depressed person, there is nothing more infuriating than telling them to snap out of it. REALLY?!? Cause that thought never crossed my mind. Cause I want to be depressed. I like having an anxiety disorder.
That being said, when you spend your life being sad, happiness is strange and unexpected. There’s a line in a Nirvana song that goes, “I miss the comfort of feeling sad.” I believe the songvwas, “Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenue On Seattle”. I can relate to this feeling. You start to get so very used to being sad and depressed that I almost can not feel comfortable being happy.
My husband once told me that everyone with a drug habit has depression to a certain extent. I believe him 100%, but what I have goes well beyond that. It started way before the heroin and continues once I am clean.
I am better than I was. the night terrors have gone from about five to six times a week to a couple of times a year. My depression is better as well. A great deal of the time I am on a relatively even keel. But there is always that monster lurking in the shadows, just waiting to take over and inhabit my entire being.
My number one problem,mis my intelligence, as strange as it sounds. I have a genius level IQ, and with that comes the inability to turn off my brain. I can not ever just get the fuck out of my head. I over-think and analyze and question everything. I constantly critique everything that I say and do. Even worse I question everything that everyone else does to me, or around me. Things that I can not control. Ironic as it is, I often feel that I have virtually no control over my own mind. It is simply awful.
I am not bi-polar. I do not have highs and lows. I have lows and evens or normals. Sometimes, I am aware that whatever it is that is making me so very upset is completely ridiculous, but that doesn’t stop me from stressing and dwelling on the subject.
In short, I am not the easiest person to live with. I know this and am fiercely loyal to those who can stand to get close to me. I want help. I need help, yet I don’t ask for it.
I am, however, so much better than I was. When I of high school and college. I literally think of darkness. Blackout shades on the windows, black clothing, very little light on, sleeping at odd times of the day, yet averaging only about four hours a sleep a day. Maybe this contributed to my drug use. Did I consciously try to numb my pain? Not that I can remember, but unconsciously I’m sure that I was. The only time I can recall actively using drugs to quiet my brain was when I had multiple warrants. The stress of the impending arrests (one of which had a no bail warrant attached to it) was all I thought about until I got high.
I think that I started using more as sort of a “fuck it”. I had nothing else to live for at he time, so why not get high? Of course the using lead to a whole new bag of worms.
I got clean, now it is time to work on my brain. If I don’t start to get treatment for my mental disorders, I know that I am at a far greater risk of relapse. If admitting that you are an addict and are powerless over your addiction is the first step towards recovering from a drug problem, is the same true for depression and anxiety? Is knowing that I am sick the first step towards getting well. Can I, or anyone else with mental disorders, even get well? I am praying that I can.