The Darkness
I am not going to go on this long tangent about what depression does or is. However, I am going to explain what depression does and is to me.
Most of the time, I call it "The Darkness". I can't really see it, and it can creep up on me at any given second, and when it does, it casts a shadow over everything I love - me included. "The Darkness" is a good nickname for the part of my brain that wants to be an asshole.
More and more, people are starting to notice the seriousness of this "disease". Great. That still doesn't make a huge difference in my life. When I wake up, with the gut feeling of: "This is going to be a dark week", it's not others' realization of "The Darkness" being an actual, real thing that gets me through it. It's not positive thinking, or smiling through it that keeps me from making the million versions of "How I Can Kill Myself" become a reality either.
There are times, where I wish I was brave enough to do it - kill myself. That is how "The Darkness" works - it makes you think that becoming a quitter is the brave thing to do. And yes, the self-righteous speech from a non-suicidal person about how committing suicide is selfish does not even tickle the closest edges of my common sense. No. Honestly, there are times where I think that dying would be me, finally putting my priorities first, instead of thinking of others - finally giving myself a break from the daily struggle of living; Living is a struggle.
There are times, where I welcome "The Darkness" like a warm blanket on a cold night. I don't really remember of a day where depression was not something I struggled with. Scratch that - I just remembered. The first death I ever experienced - my favorite uncle and only father figure. Cancer. And isn't that ironic? He didn't get to choose whether to live or die - that option was taken from him; Meeting his grandchildren, watching them grow up, being with his family - all of that was ripped away. Him dying also jump-started my depression, which has me questioning life and death almost daily (his death in general, I would never blame him for my problems). Not being able to go to his funeral, visit his grave, or say goodbye in any normal way did not help either.
But I never do it - I never even try. I let the possibilities stack up in my head, where I put them in a tiny little box and lock them up in the dark corners of "Asshole Brain". I have a beautiful daughter, and I want to see her grow old. I finally found my soulmate - I want to be by his side for as long as possible.
So I read books. As many as possible. There was a point in time, where "The Darkness" combined with postpartum depression and that taught me the wonders of reading books. I read (past tense) four books a day, drank four Rockstars a day, and did not sleep. I had read at that point about 180 books, when I realized what was happening, took a shower, brushed my hair, and took a day off to reevaluate my life. That was six years ago.
Now my depression is no longer as bad. I am in a healthier relationship, I am no longer settling, when bad things occur, I meditate and read. Instead of "The Depression" appearing every day for months on end, I might have a bad week a month. Do keep in mind, my depression is always right by me - like the high school mean girl we all tried avoiding, but always ended up crossing paths with in the school hallways and cafeteria. But I pretend to ignore the bitch, because "sticks and stones", and try not to flinch when I know - it knows - that it's a lie. Words do hurt. The words that my brain creates hurt me more than most of the words I hear from others - and I work in customer service, and have a seven year-old daughter who does not know that brutal honesty without some type of filter hurts like a katana being thrown by a very skilled ninja.
I have had close friends of mine succumb. Which is why I cannot speak for others. And I have been the one left behind to see all of the crumbling pieces that committing suicide creates. He hung himself. I saw him in a dream a few weeks after he died, and started yelling at him. I called him selfish, I pushed him, I yelled "why?!" about a million times. He smiled, hugged me, and said "One day, you will understand". And I did soon after - a physically abusive relationship will make you understand wanting death very fast.
My life, obviously had its' ups and downs. To be honest, those struggles brought me to where I am now - cliche I know, but I am quite fond of my life now. Just not myself - not my brain. I use the people around me for a reason to stick around - not as a guilt trip - but as the light on the end of my tunnel.
I don't always wish for death either. There are times, where I just wish I could spend the whole day under my covers - hiding from the world and myself. Closing my eyes and daydreaming about a make-believe life. I use whatever reasons I can find to get out of bed and get through my day - something I was not able to do six years ago.
To be continued...
Most of the time, I call it "The Darkness". I can't really see it, and it can creep up on me at any given second, and when it does, it casts a shadow over everything I love - me included. "The Darkness" is a good nickname for the part of my brain that wants to be an asshole.
More and more, people are starting to notice the seriousness of this "disease". Great. That still doesn't make a huge difference in my life. When I wake up, with the gut feeling of: "This is going to be a dark week", it's not others' realization of "The Darkness" being an actual, real thing that gets me through it. It's not positive thinking, or smiling through it that keeps me from making the million versions of "How I Can Kill Myself" become a reality either.
There are times, where I wish I was brave enough to do it - kill myself. That is how "The Darkness" works - it makes you think that becoming a quitter is the brave thing to do. And yes, the self-righteous speech from a non-suicidal person about how committing suicide is selfish does not even tickle the closest edges of my common sense. No. Honestly, there are times where I think that dying would be me, finally putting my priorities first, instead of thinking of others - finally giving myself a break from the daily struggle of living; Living is a struggle.
There are times, where I welcome "The Darkness" like a warm blanket on a cold night. I don't really remember of a day where depression was not something I struggled with. Scratch that - I just remembered. The first death I ever experienced - my favorite uncle and only father figure. Cancer. And isn't that ironic? He didn't get to choose whether to live or die - that option was taken from him; Meeting his grandchildren, watching them grow up, being with his family - all of that was ripped away. Him dying also jump-started my depression, which has me questioning life and death almost daily (his death in general, I would never blame him for my problems). Not being able to go to his funeral, visit his grave, or say goodbye in any normal way did not help either.
But I never do it - I never even try. I let the possibilities stack up in my head, where I put them in a tiny little box and lock them up in the dark corners of "Asshole Brain". I have a beautiful daughter, and I want to see her grow old. I finally found my soulmate - I want to be by his side for as long as possible.
So I read books. As many as possible. There was a point in time, where "The Darkness" combined with postpartum depression and that taught me the wonders of reading books. I read (past tense) four books a day, drank four Rockstars a day, and did not sleep. I had read at that point about 180 books, when I realized what was happening, took a shower, brushed my hair, and took a day off to reevaluate my life. That was six years ago.
Now my depression is no longer as bad. I am in a healthier relationship, I am no longer settling, when bad things occur, I meditate and read. Instead of "The Depression" appearing every day for months on end, I might have a bad week a month. Do keep in mind, my depression is always right by me - like the high school mean girl we all tried avoiding, but always ended up crossing paths with in the school hallways and cafeteria. But I pretend to ignore the bitch, because "sticks and stones", and try not to flinch when I know - it knows - that it's a lie. Words do hurt. The words that my brain creates hurt me more than most of the words I hear from others - and I work in customer service, and have a seven year-old daughter who does not know that brutal honesty without some type of filter hurts like a katana being thrown by a very skilled ninja.
I have had close friends of mine succumb. Which is why I cannot speak for others. And I have been the one left behind to see all of the crumbling pieces that committing suicide creates. He hung himself. I saw him in a dream a few weeks after he died, and started yelling at him. I called him selfish, I pushed him, I yelled "why?!" about a million times. He smiled, hugged me, and said "One day, you will understand". And I did soon after - a physically abusive relationship will make you understand wanting death very fast.
My life, obviously had its' ups and downs. To be honest, those struggles brought me to where I am now - cliche I know, but I am quite fond of my life now. Just not myself - not my brain. I use the people around me for a reason to stick around - not as a guilt trip - but as the light on the end of my tunnel.
I don't always wish for death either. There are times, where I just wish I could spend the whole day under my covers - hiding from the world and myself. Closing my eyes and daydreaming about a make-believe life. I use whatever reasons I can find to get out of bed and get through my day - something I was not able to do six years ago.
To be continued...
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