As someone who has depression, and major anxiety from stress, I believe that no one can actually show or prove that they're depressed. Depression comes in all forms and sizes; everyone, even animals, can have it. It's like this invisible grey cloud with continuous rain (maybe even showers when the feelings of depression/anxiety/stress are getting too much) that constantly hovers over a person who can just smile through it. It can be in that beautiful popular model on Instagram who receives thousands of likes and comments full of praise, love, and compliments everyday. It's in that girl who's always smiling and joking around with her friends. It's in that guy who's really good at school, sports, and always surrounded with people who love him.
Mental illness is months of being confined to half of your bed, because the other half is piled with clothes.
Generally, the black feelings are described by a single, solitary word. They are described by the word depression. I don’t want to use that word for them. We’ve taken the word depression and warped it until even someone who has been diagnosed barely recognises the word anymore.
There are numerous people across the world who suffer deeply with depression. And it's not a joking matter. There are individuals that got the mental condition through a really stressful situation, a cause, or the depression randomly appeared without a reason — it happens. And it's also frustrating, because depression literally controls your life. It's tough to handle, but with certain medications, focusing on clearing your mind, and doing activities that help, it's possible to overcome it.
Back when I was a 7th grader, I had transferred schools. Of my (extremely small) group of friends from my old school, there were a couple of girls I used to talk to. One we'll call Jessie, the other we'll call Callie.
I should begin this story by saying that I am no stranger to mental illness of many kinds; people in my family have been diagnosed with everything from anxiety disorders to chronic depression.
Depression — a fucked up way of realizing reality isn't so perfect.
Is anyone ever listening? How do I know that you're listening? How do I know that you care? Will you listen to me and help me find an answer or solution? Can you understand me? Are you willing to try to understand me? How in the hell can I get you to understand?
Every morning I fight myself to wake up. I fight myself to get out of bed. My bed is my only safe place. It’s the only place where my anxiety is at ease. My bed is also my enemy; it’s where my thoughts start racing and my depression kicks in. It’s where I cry and fight my emotions about what people think or say about me. The blankets act as arms and cuddle me with their embrace. How can I leave such a soothing yet destructive place? When I finally pull myself up out of bed, I slowly find myself in my bathroom in front of my mirror where I stare into what depression and anxiety looks like. Tired, bloodshot eyes; messy hair; a face that’s breaking out from the stress. I stare into my own eyes, which tell so many stories of emotion and how I feel. I see the hurt and the pain that I cover up every day with a fake smile. I struggle to get ready and try to convince myself to lay back in bed. The world is a scary place; just go back to bed where you’re truly safe. Yet I fight to continue on, and I slowly make it outside, the sun making my eyes squint, because my blacked-out shades in my bedroom hide my eyes from the sun. I cover my eyes trying to hide my emotions from the world. My clothes still say a lot about me; black is my color. Black to hide my emotions, to hide who I really am—or is it to express what I really feel? I meet my friends, putting on that fake smile; they know what I’m covering up. They question and push till I break and tell them what I’m really feeling. It feels good to tell them that it’s truly difficult to actually leave my bed. For that little moment in life spent with my friends, I actually feel happy. I feel complete, like I never struggled at all. That’s until reality hits, when I step foot into my house. Everything hits again, a whirl wind of anxiety and depression all at once. How can I have such a great time, yet feel so sad? It’s this sickness I struggle with, it’s an illness that will forever be with me. No matter how good of a day I have, I struggle at the end of the day. It’s the little moments that keeps my feet on the ground. I can have the best day of my life and still feel like I’m not good enough for this world. I truly drown myself with emotions when I walk through the front door of my house. I create my own loneliness and destructive behavior. I have to remember that no matter how much I’m struggling, I have people that love me whom I can just call if I need to. I’m a lucky one; I have that outlet. My illnesses push me to be that person for anyone that needs someone. I know what it’s like to be at the end of your rope and someone saves my life. Don’t give up on who you are, live for the little happy moments. Push yourself; I promise when living life it’s truly beautiful. It’s hard reaching out for help when you think the world is out to get you. I have so many outlets to help me forget who I am or my life, music being the main one. I shove the earbuds as far as they’ll go into my ears. I turn the music up loud, and I hold on to every lyric that is being sung to me. Find a positive outlet to release yourself, find yourself in something positive. Hold onto it and don’t let go, and don’t be afraid to talk or ask for help.