Progression of Depresison

Every morning at 3:30 I reluctantly roll out of bed and take 150 milligrams of Zoloft, a prescribed anti-depressant that I've been on since the age of 12. Originally I had been prescribed it for anger issues. But throughout my physical development as a young man, the anger that derived from the chaotic environment I was surrounded by eventually morphed into depression. That depression has led me down paths in life that a 21-year-old shouldn't have had to go through. Lack of confidence topped with the fear of loss was more then a cloud above my head, but more so a noose around my neck. My anger was unstable. Every encounter with an individual would require an analysis of their character, and a thought on how to break them. Confrontation was comfortable.

I believe that in my pursuit of confrontation, I was avoiding the one thing I truly feared, which was being alone. In my outward expression of aggression and hostility, I was seeking attention from anyone I could get it from; regardless of the ramifications. I knew that the more time I spent making noise, the less time I'd have to spend in the peace and quiet. I feared the peace and quiet. The peace and quiet was when I had time to reflect. I hated reflecting. All I ever had in my head were times of loss and failure—painful memories I never wanted to confront again. So I raised hell in my youth. I was my own catalyst in my development as a man, and I got everything that came my way with my behavior.

I never acknowledged the idea of depression being a core factor in the downward spiral of my behavior. As I progressed through my teenage years, I began to see a therapist. I was humbled by the support and effort this man put towards me and my development as a human being. He helped me understand why I behaved the way I did, and what I could do to help myself. He suggested writing my thoughts down in journals just like any other therapist would. I took it with a grain of salt and put the thought on the back burners. Then I started to find myself alone a lot. Alone at home. Alone at school. Alone in my mind. This was around my time in college, when my anger had subsided drastically. I was as lost as could be without my anger. I felt numb and vulnerable. That vulnerability became sadness. I would cry randomly throughout the day for absolutely no reason. My anxiety was through the roof. My thoughts raced. There were times I felt that I had no cognitive control over my thoughts or emotions. I was scared.

If it wasn't for these mental breakdowns, I don't think I'd be writing this passage today. When my depression struck to the degree it does, I began to write about the experience I was having. I turned to a pen and paper to cope with my emotions and to try and understand why I was feeling the way I was. Now I have piles of journals under my bed filled with diaries of self-conscience satire. If it wasn't for my depression, I never would have picked up writing as a hobby. If I never picked up writing, I never would have perused my intellectual potential to the degree I have now. Because of depression, I now have goals and aspirations. I know that I will always struggle with depression until the day I die. At least I can say I'm making the best of my situation. Turning negatives to positives.