One thing I absolutely love about depression (and I am being sarcastic here) is not being able to string together a sentence, like you feel finding a couple of words would be an achievement, let alone then having to put them into a sentence. Obviously as a writer this creates a bit of a problem.
Another thing I love how everything starts to build up around you. Plates go unwashed, the toilet doesn’t get bleached, the shopping list has been written on back, front, and in the margins, the milk has gone off, something else must have gone off in the fridge because it reeks, and come to think of that, I reek too. Did I wash yesterday, or was that the day before? My teeth feel fuzzy, when did I brush them last? The satisfaction though of clearing all the grime from the toilet bowl, of running riot in the aisles of Tesco, of emerging from the shower smelling like roses.
And that’s another thing. How time becomes irrelevant. Considering how many people seem eager to tell you you haven’t done that in forever, we haven’t done that in ages, or you missed my party didn’t you realise it was last week? When your mind gets lost in the depression fog it couldn’t care less what day it is, or what time of day it is. Gas bill, rent due, speeding fine? Nope, depression takes it all into its black hole: the good, the bad, and the ugly.
And that’s my fourth thing. Depression renders you incapable of caring about a damn thing. It pitches you into hyperbole alley. Oh my God, the gas will be cut off if I don’t pay the bill, or oh my God, if I can’t pay my rent I’ll be homeless, or worse I might end up living back with my parents. One minute you are capable of paying a bill, the next you have no idea.
Never mind the guilt of having called your boyfriend names because he was there, the anxiety of not being able to function, the sheer panic of why can’t I even get out of bed, and etc.
And with depression don’t you love that society has stigmatised it to the point you wouldn’t dare admit to your closest friend I have depression, I hate myself, I hate my life, I am an awful person, I can’t even keep a pot plant alive. Do you ever give yourself a break? Do you say but I’m ill? No, we struggle on. Broken leg? Let’s fix that. Bumped your head? Let’s get that seen to.
You have depression? It’ll be OK tomorrow. I hate myself? It’s not all about you. I hate my life? You need to get a job. I am an awful person? You know you’re not. I can’t even keep a pot plant alive? Laughter.
And depression loves that. It thrives on silence. If we aren’t talking about it we’re keeping parts of ourselves in the closet. Secrets are lethal. Secrets give you stress, and make you ashamed. Shame drives a lot of people, so does stress, and that’s usually to the grave.
So, what do you love about your depression?