This Is Real

There is absolutely, positively nothing I can say about my depression that hasn’t been written by someone else before. And yet, even though I know I’m boring you, the fact remains: writing here helps.

It helps to tell you that I sometimes spontaneously cry, and then ten minutes later have a great idea for a tumblr. (Do you want to know? No? I’m going to tell you anyway.

It would be called, “Is this gluten-free?” And then I’d post a picture of a banana, or an orange, or grass, or a dog, or a fork. Or bread. Genius, right? Someone do this now. I’d do it, but I’m too tired.)

 

Is this wheat bread gluten-free?

That’s the other thing. I’m tired. I’m so so so so so so tired. Of course, this means the very logical thing that I cannot sleep. I can fall asleep, but then I wake up, because I have a bad dream, or because I hear my alarm clock, or because the dog stretches out. Or because air falls on my face. I wake up and then I can’t go back to sleep, and I’m totally and completely alone in the dark, staring at my ceiling.

And then there is the (trigger warning: are you triggered by completely disgusting bodily details? WARNING, HERE IT COMES)…the…the diarrhea. I am losing weight and feeling dehydrated and pooping it all in the toilet. Whenever I have a depressive episode, my insides cannot keep my food in me. I’ve basically had a terrible case of the runs for twenty years.

There are other physical side effects of depression: muscle aches, headaches, loss of appetite.

I wanted to make a video of me taste testing potato chips. (They would all be good.) But eh.

But the worst is where I regret telling Gregg that I was feeling suicidal. I regret that now he’s watching me, and taking care of me. I regret that I don’t have the energy to make dinner, or fold the laundry, or fill out job applications. (I also have been going on every single job interview ever and being rejected. I don’t know why. CAN’T THEY SEE MY SUNNY DISPOSITION?) (I might have some bad timing.)

I am going to get through this. That’s what I keep telling myself. I am not sugar-coating anything anymore. I am upset and I am sad, but the upside is: there is absolutely positively nothing scary right now. I can make phone calls without anxiety, because fuck, that’s nothing compared to suicide. I can have awful diarrhea in a major league ballpark bathroom because WHO CARES. I can tell the Internet that I was sexually abused and physically hurt and neglected because WHAT CAN ANYONE DO TO ME?

So, I hope being squashed to the absolute bottom of the barrel means that I can get up. I’m a tiny bit better than I was yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. But I’m not there yet. I hope that being so honest about how awful this disease is, how it grips people and won’t shake them loose, how it is relentless, will let you know: this is real.

This is real. So if you know anyone who has been in my position, you give them all the love in the world. They need it.