It was cold and she was empty. She could feel nothing but despair. Alone in a dark room she lay in her rugged and broken bed. Her curtains pulled back and window wide open so she could stare out in to the blackness of the night sky. Jess the young girl, who nobody cared about, had nothing to lose and nothing to fight for. She was on her own and to her that was normal because she had never known anything different.
When I use to think of the word depression, I use to think of someone with a mental illness, someone who always wanted to kill themselves, and someone who was sad most of the time. But when I started suffering from depression, I knew that it was more to it.
Cold drops of rain are sliding down the car window. Pattering on the roof from the fairy like drops. My nose is dripping from the cold. My fingers feel as if I’m wearing gloves made of frost. Tears roll down my cheeks as if in the same pattern of the rain. No words to give just silent breath’s. No body will ask how I am or what is wrong.
May is mental health awareness month and I, your obnoxiously woke friend, haven’t said anything about it. I’ve felt very self conscious about it, not because I have an “it” to talk about, but because I suddenly feel very inadequate. Who did I think I was to try to articulate any of the complexities of living with a mental illness? Why did I want to start talking about this in public and set myself any expectation to live up to? All I am now is a diagnosis, and, depending on who you are, that’s maybe not a good thing.
My mum is the most amazing woman you will ever encounter in your life. The things she has gone through will make you want to cry, and the fact that she has remained an honest, kind and loving soul throughout will make you cry harder.
One thing that I find incredibly unique to the society and the world we live in is the access to media outlets and information. If you compare this to the late 1990’s and early 2000’s things were not quite as mainstream and sticking your face into something besides your phone (such as a book) was a lot more common. Today, I can journalize about mental health during a pandemic and relate it to the philosophy of comic books through an introduction about the unique mainstream media outlets of the twenty-first century.
It pans out almost like a cliched, run-of-the-mill, sappy tale with a happy ending, especially when I write and share it on the internet. Almost a decade ago, I had my first brush with the real-life infamous villain called “Depression.” I couldn’t cognize its presence initially and when I began to, it started scraping and spooking me in wacky ways every new time. It swiftly pervaded most spheres of my life, quite similarly to a virus, caused havoc and did damage – all without me even registering it. Over the years, our encounters became more frequent and our contests got so intense to the point where now when it didn’t visit me for a while, I’d start missing it!? Sounds like a case of Stockholm Syndrome, and perhaps it was. Anyway, then the plot took a turn, and there came the hero of the saga- the green-and-white-coloured pills, the prince charming on a horse, and a deep, spiritual healing from the heavens- all one after the other, sweeping me off my feet, pumping life and ecstasy into me. My story has a happy ending and I can hardly believe it. For someone who was a reclusive, faithless pessimist about her life circumstances, I surely saw somewhat of a miracle when I found happiness after about eight long years.