Missing Depression

Depression is terrible. It destroys lives and tears apart families. And yet after a certain amount of time it becomes a crutch, a constant for those who are watching it reduce their lives to nothing.

Some people worked incredibly hard to help me out of my depression; others, people I was closest to, simply backed away hands held high. I self-harmed, dropped out of school, forgot to eat or shower and eventually placed into a suicide crisis team. I lost all enthusiasm for any type of future anyone was willing to offer me.

And yet.

Here I am, various appointments and hundreds of pills later, with a future that is brighter than the warm afternoon light I woke up to. And sometimes I miss my depression.

Once I accepted I was depressed, it gave me an explanation for my behaviour, sadness and anger and self-destruction could be written off by my dodgy hormone levels and off I could ride into a sunset of 'A Day to Remember' and the occasional packet of crisps.

I was excused for needing silence, and time. I was given a free pass to be as angry or irrational as I wanted or needed to be because I was isolated from almost everyone it would hurt or offend. Now I feel I have a responsibility for myself I have never had before and more importantly for the people around me.

This fragile mind and body, whose welfare was taken out of my hands from a young age was thrown back in my face. I had been numb for years and all of a sudden I needed to contort into a box I hadn't been eased into. "Dealing" with my emotions made me feel like toddler, taking time out to deal with anxiety was an embarrassingly boring thing to do and heaven forbid I feel upset about anything.

For so long I was protected by this blanket of nothing everything important or relevant just bounced off and hey, I didn't need to worry about my future because I wasn't planning on having one.

I became complacent in my emptiness, I forgot living (depressed or not) required genuine effort and honestly, I was not ready for it. I still am not ready for it.

It would be so much easier not to need to consider the little things, not to need to get out of bed or control my feelings. Christ knows I would like to be comfortable not showering for weeks now.

And yet.

I stand in the shower at 7:30 AM, about the time I would have gone to sleep eight months ago, feeling pretty damn tired. I am running through my day in my head; how I was going to catch which trains and still fit lunch in before my appointment. My mind wanders off to lunch, perhaps I could find one of those quirky London lunch places to hang out in for an hour, they would almost definitely serve something avocado based. Bank breaking, but probably worth it. But it's so early and I just want to be back in bed and spending the day binge watching numbing.

'Well done' I think, 'I bet you're feeling pretty damn impressed with yourself with your "productive day" thing going on.' And I realise you know what, I actually am. Because no matter how much I miss the excuses, and no matter how many times I catch myself slipping and have to haul or be hauled right back up I feel good. I feel, and I feel good.

And yes, this is me telling myself in written words. Because I need to remind myself, when feelings get confusing, what is good and what is less so, that it is okay not to be swimming but I still need to stay above the water—drowning is only easier until you remember you need to breathe.