The problem with a history of depression and anxiety is that you can never know if you’re “just having one of those weeks” or if you’re sliding back down into those places you swore you’d never go again.
Woke up feeling useless because of a nightmare. Like, if I can’t even save a group of mutant teenagers from being executed by their own town and families, how am I supposed to get out of bed and brush my teeth?
“Others imply that they know what it is like to be depressed because they have gone through a divorce, lost a job, or broken up with someone. But these experiences carry with them feelings. Depression, instead, is flat, hollow, and unendurable. It is also tiresome. People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you are irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You’re frightened, and you’re frightening, and you’re ‘not at all like yourself but will be soon,’ but you know you won’t.”
— Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness (via larmoyante)
Yes. Usually it’s over guilt, though. Sorry to disappoint if you were hoping for some juicy details about who/what turns me on. If you’re having trouble sleeping because you’re excited/euphoric/filled with warm fuzzies then go with it. Live out your fantasies. If you’re feeling guilty and running over scenarios in your head about how you could have made something better/acted
differently better/been better then I have no advice. Nothing I try helps. When I wake up I still hate the person I am.
The other night I was Skyping with one of my best friends. She lives in Holland and I live in America, so we don’t get to talk often. I trust her so much, and every time we talk I just feel so loved. She’s amazing.
I was talking to her about cutting, and started telling her about how I sometimes take pictures of my self-harm instead of writing about it, or in addition to writing about it. I don’t normally show people the pictures, but I sent her a few. She had been sharing her screen with me because I’d been watching her draw something, so I saw when she opened the files.
She opened this picture, kept it on the screen for a few seconds, closed it, and opened it again in Photoshop. I watched, confused, thinking it had been an accident.
I watched quietly while she erased every line of blood, every scar, every cut from my body. I started recording the screen without thinking- I needed to be able to watch it again. I knew I would need to feel that sense of… relief. That there was someone in my life who knew the extent of me and could still see through to something beautiful.
I wanted to share this with you because I think it’s important. If you feel anything close to how I felt when I saw this, I’m happy. Because you should know that it’s possible to be loved, underneath the pain and the scars and the blood. We are all beautiful.
You’re beautiful, and above all, you are not alone.
It has been four days since I last took any of my effexor. My roommate, (who is a psychology major) swears it will stay in my system for at least a week and I will be fine.
But I can already feel my brain expanding.
You see, first I’ll start to shrivel in on myself. I’ll feel hazy and dizzy and tired. I’ll feel like a fish in a glass bowl. Now, I feel the stars expanding over my head and the weight of the heaven’s stare as I remember the world is out there and it is surrounding me.
I am one of the most selfish women I know. I only want beauty. I want beautiful jewelry. I want beautiful clothes. I want excellent food and a man (or woman) who can kiss better than the excellent food tastes. I want flawless skin, and lovely hair, and mysterious eyes. I want lovely, fluffy towels, soft blankets, good books, nice office supplies, and lots of other shiny toys.
I remember all of this when I take my medicine. I don’t always remember that everyone else wants them too.
When I’m shocked out of myself and I realize there are people dying who deserve their youth and beauty far more than I do, it brings me to tears. Not just a few here or there, either. Tears so violent that when I take my contacts out afterward, they’ll pull off with the reluctance of suction cups. Tears that pour so relentlessly that I could drown in the salt water.
Why do I need more beauty? I have the stars. I have more love than I deserve. I have enough money to buy a coffee on my fifteen-minute break at work. Work! I have a job! I have a means to buy lovely things! I have literature, and cinema, and fan-fiction! I have the support of my family.
Why then? Why is it so hard to want to live? Why is it so hard to find the beauty that I look for every day of my life? It’s right there! It’s in everyone I meet! There are people DYING and SUFFERING and there are stars and systems galaxies and who knows what else? There is hope. There is love. There is pre-made raw cookie dough!
What the hell is wrong with me? Why don’t I want any of it? I am at a constant war with myself. I am fighting the rebel thoughts that tell me I don’t belong here. I am fighting the sly nightmares that tell me I cannot handle all I am trying to do. I am fighting with myself. I am the most fearsome opponent of all. I can bring myself down in seconds.
I cannot wait until I pick up my prescription tomorrow and I can silence this crazy, ranting, broken woman.
I just want to laugh again without tears in my eyes.
Last winter I got to work before the sun rose and left after it had set. It’s no wonder that we drank and smoked the cold away. We burrowed in to the dank earth of our pasts and huddled close with wit filled conversation. Already, I feel growing the tumour-need for routine.
I don’t know how to be well.