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Relating to Depression
Okee this is how to relate to depression or something.
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D E P R E S S I O N
It’s a word that often brings down a conversation or a word that is often tossed around normally, as though it was as normal as breathing.
The way one says “I feel depressed” is different from those who say “I am depressed”
Many don’t understand what depression is; many think that it is always being upset or sad over certain things or all the time and many others think it is a joke, something to laugh about.
What they don’t know is that depression is none of those things. Depression begins slowly. You notice that you don’t wish to do the hobbies you used to enjoy. You realise how many flaws you have and how you’re not this or that. You don’t have the energy to laugh or smile anymore. Getting out of bed is a task that should be easy. The hunger that would annoy slowly fades away and you don’t care. Words start to echo in your mind.
“I probably look pathetic.”
“Why can’t I be good enough?”
“I hate myself.”
“Please… this is too hard.”
These words become familiar and comforting, a cold blanket that soothes your warm body to numbness. You know you shouldn’t think these things and you wish you could tell someone but you bite your lip between your teeth and second guess yourself.
You begin to become paranoid and distant. You often look at the girl who was your best friend and watch as she laughed, full of life and love. You smile for real just for a moment before you realise that you can’t join in that laughter. You know you’ve pushed your friends away and it burns you.
You look at that boy who you used to laugh and talk about everything and anything with and watch as he tells a joke. You wish you could hear that joke because he was always funny. He always made you laugh no matter how bad your day was.
But those things didn’t help anymore. You felt like you annoyed people. So you pushed them away, saving them the heartbreak when you’re gone.
You started thinking about death more often; how no one would miss you or even notice. It’s not like you had a friend to rely on. And it’s not like your family cared.
Your parents don’t notice how you’ve stopped going to your friends’ houses or ask them to come to yours. They don’t notice how you rarely talk or meet their eyes during dinner. You become more and more lost in your mind. Mom wonders why you don’t leave your room or why you keep listening to music. Dad is suddenly worried why you spend all your time on the internet instead of talking about how you are.
Remember when you were in the car and your Mom tried to set up a conversation but you didn’t bother? Worry was in her mind as she remembered how you used to use witty and sarcastic banter that annoyed her to no end but that’s how she wanted and loved you; just as yourself.
You start to feel numb all the time, lying in bed just staring at the dust moats as the swirl in the light as your curtains were always closed.
“They let the heat out” you say to your mother as you shivered under your blanket. But you knew you were lying. You hated seeing the sky and how everything was outside. It annoyed you how the other kids were laughing with their friends and you were stuck inside.
One day, in class as you were writing, a thought crosses your mind.
“What if… what if I hurt myself on the outside too?”
You’ve never thought that before because you were never this numb. You shook your head and chuckled at your silliness. You’ve heard how boys and girls hurt themselves too and you never wanted that.
But it’s an idea.
And idea never leaves; it starts to grow like a seed, planted in your mind.
So you do, late at night when everyone is asleep. You held the blade or the rubber in your hand. You scratched away at your skin until it bled, you rubbed all the skin away until tears formed in your eyes and sobs clutched at your throat, and you pulled your hair until fear consumed you at the thought of being bald and the blade…
It dug deep, just like your emotional cuts that hurt more. You saw the blood as it beaded up and you watched, fascinated. You did it again. And again. And again until your arm or leg or shoulder or stomach was covered in tiny red ribbons.
It hurts.
It hurts a lot.
But you like it; the pain.
So you decide to hurt another part of your body.
And the next day when you wake up and you hear your voice being called to “Get up!” you wince as you move. The pain wasn’t as good as last night but still felt okay.
You go to school and you never thought that this would ever happen. Months ago you were happy, a happy child with loads of friends and that almost relationship. You wonder what happened to that person. You don’t feel the butterflies anymore. Maybe a deep hatred is in your veins as you think of them. They could never like you; you weren’t good enough.
And it hurts.
Nothing ever hurts more than emotional pain because we can’t put a bandage on it and kiss it better.
That’s what depression is, a monster and thought, an idea.
And no one can ever kill an idea, not really.
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thanks!
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