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The Face of Depression

Behind Closed Doors

By Stephy EllsworthPublished 2 years ago 7 min read
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What does depression look like? Simply put, it looks “normal.” It looks “healthy.”

My depression looks like a genuine smile. It sounds like gut wrenching laughter. It smells fresh & clean from a recent shower. It appears organized during my daily work tasks & responsibilities.

I made it my mission to make others smile in hopes of giving them the happiness that I do desperately wanted but didn’t have.

For others, depression may look well rested & refreshed, or in contrast — it could appear tired or restless.

Honestly, it could “look” like anything. It could look like the most paid personnel, or the last one on chain of command. It could live in a mansion or be homeless. It could be the one everyone loves or the one everyone hates. I won’t go on because by now, I’m sure you get the gist. Depression could affect anyone. It does not discriminate. No race, no gender, no socioeconomic status, no culture, & no religion is exempt from the claws of depression. For some it may scratch the surface of the brain or emotions. For others, the claws dig in really deep.

We look at different individuals every day & still not realize their mental state. I was myself for weeks and nobody noticed. Do you know why? Because depression hides in plain sight. The thing about depression is that it can be “fixed up” so pretty & well put together on the outside. That’s how I hid mine so long. I have perfected “the look” so well I hid it from others, but I mostly hid it from myself.

I would wake up every day & “put on a face.”

For a while, I denied my fluctuations of insomnia & my bouts with binge eating followed by not eating at all. I overlooked the aches, the pains, the digestive issues. I ignored the chest heaviness & the heart racing. (That was from the Red Bull & my addiction to caffeine, right?)

I didn’t feel like going anywhere or doing anything with anyone. I attributed my lack of interest in life to being tired, & I attributed being tired to working long hours. I blamed my diminished concentration & gaps of memory loss to overextending myself & committing myself to too many tasks to focus on at once.

It wasn’t until I found myself missing work & ending up as a frequent flier in the local emergency room that the word “depression” was even brought up.

The recent death of my grandma (at that time, 2012) rattled me. The extremism of my former church, the leader of their cult slandering, & defaming me at the ripe age of 19 (while convincing the entire community to be against me for being pregnant)—emotionally & mentally exhausted me.

Now, factor in being married to an abusive ex-husband. What do you get? Disaster. Chaos. I remember feeling extremely fatigued, loss of appetite, unexplained weight loss excessive sleeping, constant headaches, & inability to concentrate or focus. It was like I wasn’t feeling well, but I couldn’t quite explain it. My attendance at work became hit or miss. I was on a one way ticket upon the Hot Mess Express. All aboard!!

I wouldn’t say that my ex-husband was the sole cause of all my physical symptoms, but he played his part in it. And, his “part” was the icing on the cake or the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Being in his presence choked the breath out of me. The hairs on my arm always stood when he was near me. Being in his presence choked the breath out of me. The hairs on my arm always stood when he was near me. During these times, I slept. A LOT. My 11pm-7 am nursing schedule helped me with the “I’m just tired” excuse to sleep.

I figured the best way to not feel anything was to sleep through it. It never really dawned on me that it would still be there when I woke up.

There I was again, in the ER explaining the same symptoms. Every outcome was the same, unremarkable labs & testing.I grew tired of hearing “everything is normal,” when I knew how I felt.

I knew something was wrong, but I never guessed that I was depressed. I suppose in hindsight, I had all of the clinical symptoms.

I remember being offended by the diagnosis. Partly because the cult leader or my former pastor thought instilled in his members that a believer of God or a spiritual person “didn’t have any business” being depressed or having a “nervous breakdown.” The other reason I took offense was because — for whatever reason, I thought that depression could never happen to me.

MY depression. See, that’s the thing. It wasn’t my depression. It was ours. Everything I felt and everything I did affected someone else — my parents, my significant other, my child, my job, etc. Once again, I was too busy to be depressed.

I eventually grew to learn to accept what the doctor said was wrong. Visiting my primary care physician confirmed everything the ER attending physician diagnosed. I was started on an anti-depressant (citalopram) & anxiety medication (buspirone). Just that quick, mild depression with recurrent symptoms (F33.0) & generalized anxiety disorder (F41.1) was added to my medical records. That was a nail in the coffin for me. Seeing is listed on my “problem list” made it permanent. I hid my pill bottles because I didn’t want my (then) husband to know. I especially didn’t need him to know that he was the one that pushed me over the edge & onto the axis.

I complied with the medication regime my PCP put me on. I don’t know if it was because I was living with “him” or if it was the strength of the medication, but it just wasn’t working. From there, the dosage was increased. I hoped that this medication was going to make me see the last of my depression. That’s not how it worked. Maybe the depression wasn’t as prevalent, but it crept in the background. It crept in my mind & controlled my focus. It crept in my heart & triggered tears. It crept in my sleep routine. It crept in my diet. It was still very much controlling my life.

I tried drinking, but that didn’t help.

Sleep was a temporary fix.

Crying was getting old—only because I had no idea why I was being.

Journaling was somewhat therapeutic, especially because I didn’t have anyone else that I felt I could talk to.

I learned quickly how ignorant people are about mental health.

The misconception about depression is that you need a “reason” to be depressed. Depression is not a “thought,” it’s a feeling. No one purposely sits around & think about things that make them “sad.”

Yes, we know “it’s going to be okay.” But when? And for how long? I’m not sure if you know it or not, but that statement isn’t helping. Saying “don’t cry,” & “don’t be sad” to a person with depression is like telling a dog not to bark. It doesn’t work that way.

Robin Williams. Lee Thompson Young. Don Cornelius. Kate Spade. Mac Miller.

Without much explanation, you are probably already aware of why their names are listed.

For some, depression is a beast that becomes scarier every day. For others, it’s waves that come & go like the ocean. Inconsistent & changes with time.

But for me…

To this day, depression takes a holt of me with what feels like a death grip, & refuses to let me go.

But, I’ve learned to “get through the moment.” Getting through the day was a little more than I could handle.

Some days are worse than others.

The most important part is that no matter what, I survive.

Depression is an everyday battle. Everyday I fight — against my mind. Against my body. Against my tears.

I may lose some battles, but I refuse to lose the war.

By Christopher Campbell on Unsplash

*A Tribute To Those Who Have been prematurely silenced by depression*

“I’m okay, I’m just tired” a line we use too often to hide the truth.

Can’t face the music that the “I’m tired” line is tired and used as an excuse to the hide the fact that we lied.

I’m not okay, the words we want to scream out but we are choked and silenced, paralyzed by the fear of the reaction if we cry.

Draining the very life out of ourselves but no one has the time to listen and those who do don’t even really care.

Where do I turn? A rope, a shell, a razor will cure it all, ’cause in the dim reality, if I die and burn people ain’t all that concerned.

I finally find courage to speak up and speak my piece, but I’m ignored. I find that my silence is louder than my words.

They won’t miss me if I’m gone, they don’t acknowledge my existence anyway. I’ve decided, this is it. I’ll try one more time. I open my mouth to speak but I’m pushed aside.

It’s over, I can’t take this pressure one more day. When they find the note next to my body, all it’ll say is, “I wasn’t just tired, I was never okay.”

—Stephy Ellsworth ©

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About the Creator

Stephy Ellsworth

Certified Blogger | Master Life Coach | Lover of words, writing, reading, & English |Published Authoress|

“Everyone has a story, I just decided to write mine.” -Steph 💋✍🏽

#stephysays💋#astoldbySteph #stephysaysshow #accordingtostephy

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