Singing in the shower has always been one of my favourite parts of the day. If I could, I’d spend my whole day singing along to cheesy songs and dancing about in my pyjamas. But last week I just stood in the shower, the music played but my lips didn’t even attempt to move. I knew I hadn’t been feeling the best, but then I realised things were about to get bad again.
When I say bad I mean my depression was getting worse. For me, depression is more than sadness. It’s smiling with your lips, but never with your eyes. It’s the darkness in the sky at night, when you realise how truly alone you are. It’s watching days pass, but nothing gets better or changes. It’s dragging your feet out of bed and feeling like there is not a drop of life in you or your body. It’s trying to convince yourself that there is a purpose and that things are going to get better, but not believing a single word of it. It’s your friends not knowing where you are for weeks, sometimes months at a time. But it happens so often that people have stopped looking or wondering about you. It’s looking at the hollow shell of the human you’ve become in disgust, realising no one could ever hate you more than you hate yourself. It’s fantasising about ending it all, thinking of the perfect way to do it. It’s writing letters to your family and friend, in case you actually find the courage to.
So I’ve come to realise perhaps I’m not as o.k as I convince myself I am. When my psychiatrist asks if I’m planning to end my life, I smile at her and reassure her that the idea hasn’t entered my brain. A part of me hopes she’ll see through my smile and tell me she know’s it’s a lie. But in reality I’m just another name and she’s so overworked that I don’t think the thought even enters her brain. Or is that I’m just so convincing? My whole family are convinced, heck so are my friends. They think I’m some thrill seeker who disappears on adventures, in reality I just lock myself up in my house and then reappear with perfectly applied makeup and an even faker smile. I’m becoming convinced people ask you if you’re o.k, but don’t really want to know if you’re not.
So then I ask myself, do I drop the act or keep pretending. How long can I keep this up and how long can I keep it together? I mean honestly, the reason I don’t ask for help is the fact that I’m scared. If I open up to someone and they don’t care anyway I think that would push me over the edge. Sounds stupid, but my friends and family are my only hope in my mind. A bit, like a secret weapon which I’ll only ever use out of sheer desperation.
But for now, goodbye until my next post. Thank you for reading, I enjoy writing out my feelings. It helps me put things into context better, I know I’m going to be o.k. It’s just sometimes I feel like I’m trying to climb a plastic rope that is covered in oil.
Until next time