Said to myself I’d start writing more. Well, I say that all the time but I know I’m not going to do as much as I’d like. Said I’d write a blog post every week. Work hard to get this little writing space up to where I’d like to see it. I’ve always set writing goals for myself and never reached them, like a failed new years resolution. However I don’t really mind not keeping it any more.
I was hoping to introduce the topic of depression a bit more stylistically, a bit more carefully on here. In a way that was tasteful, but not romanticizing. Considerate, yet completely honest.
But I never found a way to do that. So here I am. Tuesday evening, with many better, more productive things to be doing. It’s been like that for a while actually. Got some really pressing things to hand, but can’t quite reach them.
The reason I am broaching this subject now, without any real forewarning (sorry), is because… honestly… I’m struggling.
I’m just struggling. Plain and simple. No other way to look at it.
Depression is strange. Not just because of what it is (which is, in its primary form, just our silly human brains trying to get rid of themselves, if you think about it, which I have) and not just because of what it does (Make you sad. Make you numb. Make you everything except what you really should be at this present moment in time.) but because of what it doesn’t do.
Depression doesn’t let you do anything.
It’s not just feeling sad all the time (but it’s that too). It’s not just crying or feeling suicidal or being a moody bitch (although it can be those, too). It’s this emptiness that doesn’t let up. You know what you’re feeling is irrational, and not justified,and that there are, in fact, things to be happy about. But you just can’t reach them. It’s this obligation to carry on in a world that does not, in any way, feel worth it. Sometimes, I think, if I had a normal and healthy brain at this very moment, I might be the happiest girl in the world.
Depression isn’t an absence of good things in life. It’s not eradicated by getting rich, getting good grades or becoming beautiful. It’s there with or without. Like jury duty, it doesn’t matter who you are but it may choose you. Which is funny, because you can get out of jury duty if you are too depressed/anxious/mentally ill to do it. (Or something like that)
Now don’t get me wrong and don’t take the wrong end of my stick (oo-er). I’m not trying to be all maudlin and woe-is-me (but I am a little bit). I want to share this, not for attention (dear God don’t give me attention) or sympathy. But because this is where I write now. I don’t keep journals or diaries anymore. This is where my thoughts go. And this disorder is a part of my life. Despite my age it’s been a part of my life for a long time (well, long enough). I’m by no means finished with it and I’m not even sure the worst is over.
But if you reading this -girl, boy, man, woman, child, adult, other – can read this and say “Hey, I understand what this feels like. I don’t feel so lonely any more” or “I understand more about depression now” then I may have helped someone. But if not, that’s okay too. In all honesty, this is just for me, to get this goddamn mess out of my goddamn head.
Thanks,
Jess.
Jessica G Allen 