Some days I feel like such a captive in my own head. I can hear my sanity screaming at me, but for some reason it's locked behind the depression, behind the anxiety, and sadness prevails. And then, I'm even more depressed because I know that I can be happy, I know what it feels like, I had it such a short time ago and now it's slipped out of my grasp. I know it will come again, because this is the cycle that I live with, but at the same time my disease keeps on telling me that it won't. It tricks me, it lies, and it insists that this is my new reality. A life of melancholy days, and panic-filled, thought-racing nights. A life of being stuck inside because I can't bear to leave my house.
I'm sorry if this is depressing, but it helps to express my thoughts sometimes.
Other times, it's just a waste of effort.
It muddles my brain. The depression does. Or the anxiety, I don't know. I'm more easily confused, and I have these vivid memories of things that have never happened to me.
My heart aches, and my soul begins to feel like it's stretched too thin, like I've had more life than I can handle.
Which I haven't, I assure you. I want nothing more than to continue my existence, I only wish that I could do so without the fear of this. I know that without medication I'm destined to feel the full effect of every 'swing' my brain throws at me. They don't happen often, I'd say twice a year. Usually the worst one is in October, which, ironically is my favorite month...they last anywhere from a day to a week, and once I'm through it my mood will level out and stay at 'slightly depressed.'
Isn't it sad, how easily I can talk about this? I didn't used to be able to. I used to try to pretend that there was nothing wrong with me. But that actually made it worse. The more I tried to suppress my fears and anxieties, the more I focused on them, because I was so worried about them showing. Does that make sense? Kind of like if you had a bald spot in the back of your head, and rather than just let it be, you tried to hide it with a hair piece or by making a bun around that spot, but neither was comfortable, so you kept touching it, which, in turn, only drew more attention to it.
I kept it bottled inside, until I couldn't take it anymore, and then I'd have a full-blown out-of-control level ten anxiety attack. I can remember a few that I had when I lived with my parents that were just...insane. But even then, they didn't see. I'd go in my room, and scream, cry, or take it out on myself in other ways. I didn't know what was wrong with me, I didn't understand why certain things hurt my feelings so bad, or why I wasn't normal. I kept it hidden for so many years.
Then, one day, I broke down. I couldn't take it anymore. I had a horrible anxiety attack while I was on my way out the door, and I couldn't stop it. I mean, it hit me hard. I scared my parents, I know I did. They'd never seen me like that. My mom cried with me, and said she wished I had told her sooner. Eventually I calmed down enough to talk, and that's the first time I ever realized that I didn't have to be embarrassed about being sad. Sure it's deeper than your typical sadness, it's without rhyme or reason, and it has a mind all it's own sometimes, but it's nothing to be ashamed of. I didn't choose this, and I didn't do anything wrong. I haven't hurt anyone but myself.
So that helped a lot, coming to that realization. Figuring out that the people that loved me weren't going to stop just because of that. Even though sometimes it feels like it. That's part of the sickness, is having to listen to its lies, having it tell you that nobody loves you and nobody cares. Sometimes I can fight back, and sometimes I fall into it's trap, and give in to the idea that I'm alone. What sustains me in those darkest hours is my cat, Belle. Seriously. Even when I'm lost in the deepest, darkest, most solitary corner of my mind she'll find me and lick my toes or something. It was always that way. I can say with 100% honesty that if it weren't for Queenie, and the comfort she gave me, and all the times she let me cry into her fur, I wouldn't be alive today. The love of an pet is so perfect and so pure that not even depression can suppress it.
But now I'm come to terms with my reality. I'll never be over this. I could go to a doctor, and they could write me a prescription, and ask me how things make me feel, and tell me things I already know, like I should confront my triggers, and face my fears, but you know what? I don't want to. Not right now anyway.
I'm finally at a place in my life where I have come to terms with everything. Everything that has happened to me, every choice I've made, every situation that has been forced upon me, and I'm okay. I survived. I'm not always happy, and I may not be the best company at a party, and I will never participate in Black Friday, but that's me. I've accepted myself, and that was a hard thing to do, so I know that in spite of the occasional anxiety attack, or mood swing, I am making progress. In my own way, in my own time...