I have suffered from depression and anxiety my entire life. I think I have outgrown a lot of my anxieties, but depression is a very different story. I was at my lowest in my undergrad years. Medication and therapy helped a lot, and there was a time several years ago where I was just completely happy. I was in a great place in life, I was figuring out who I was, I was surrounded by amazing people, and I had a great outlook on life.
Fast forward to now. I thought, a few years ago, that I had "overcome" depression. That I had coping mechanisms and could deal with anything that happens in healthy and constructive ways. I have slowly been realizing that this is not true. I have not overcome depression and in fact, it probably is something that will always be there with me. It will be a constant fight.
It starts small, the periods of depression, for me. The urge to cry at the smallest thing, the urge to stay in bed for 5 more minutes. Typically I have been able to figure out my warning signs and talk my way out of it. Rationalize to myself and work to find "happy" things to deal with everything. But these past few days have shown me that this depression, as much as I want to think I have a handle on it, really is a sneaky little meanie.
One of the biggest struggles I have had, and continue to have, is validating that depression is a real thing. Yes, for me, it is incredibly real and I know and understand that it is not just in my head. It's a chemical imbalance, and something that I cannot fix on my own. But that wasn't always the case. Growing up, I had parents that told me sadness was "all in my head," and I just needed an "attitude adjustment." There was one point, in high school, that I was feeling so helpless, I asked my mother for a professional counseling appointment for my birthday. She laughed in my face.
The way I was raised, it took me a very long time to acknowledge that mental illnesses were real. Even now, I think I tend to simplify it sometimes, in order to hide the fact that there is something "wrong" with me.
Here's the thing I need to realize. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with anyone that lives with a mental illness. I think society has stigmatized it for so long, from institutionalizing people suffering, to making fun of mood swings, to everything in between, it is an embarrassing subject. Nobody talks about mental illness, nobody talks about self-harm. And they need to. If people were to talk, tell their stories, don't you think mental illnesses would be seen as a common reality? Don't you think then, people would be more apt to ask for help and not feel embarrassed? That people would understand depression or anxiety in a better way, and not feel "weird" or "alone" in their experiences? Depression is an incredibly isolating thing. The fact that people don't talk about it and there is a danger in asking for help, only escalates the need for a person going through a depressed state to stay silent. And that's not right.
Until then, this is my story. I'm struggling. It'll pass, it'll get better, but at the moment I am not myself. I want people to understand that, to know that I would rather be curled in a ball in bed crying than anywhere else at the moment. And that's ok. It's not a bad thing, it's not wrong.
One of the highlights of my low point was last week, when I saw one of my favorite singers ever live. For those of you who don't know, that person is Brandi Carlile. She sings this song called "That Wasn't Me." The song was written about addiction, but while she was singing it, it struck me how the meaning could be transferred to what I was going through and experiencing. So if you are interested, here's Brandi:
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