My brain has this function where I can see both sides of an argument/thought/idea/ and see the outcomes, for the most part. And while normally I think this would be a good thing, it also effects me when I'm depressed and trying to tell myself things to make me feel better. The problem is that I can have full hypothetical scenarios play out in my head, and while I can see both good and bad, the thing with depression is that the bad usually wins. Today for example: I was relaxing, everything was great, but then I got into a what-if. I was scrolling Pinterest and came across a post about how others are effected by the self-harm and suicide of their loved ones. The purpose of the post was to help us that are in the struggle, by giving us another reason to not self-harm, and to live. But for me, it didn't do that. Instead it spawned a hypothetical scene, where I attempted suicide by jumping off a bridge and was rescued and hospitalized; after messaging a friend to let them know that was I planning it. The me in that made-up situation decided it would be better for them to know - and have them spread the word - instead of me just going missing. While the hospital scenes played out, with people asking why, and trying to convince me to live, saying how much it would hurt everyone, how much I mean, that people need me, I fought back by saying that I don't mean that much, that everyone will be able to move on just fine, that everything would be better off without me, that they'll find someone else that's better than me.
Last week or so, I found an empty box in my room, I grabbed a pencil and wrote on the lid "A Box of Reasons." I then got some paper, and wrote down reasons to live. Most of them are the names of my friends. Some are shows that I'm watching. Some are sweet things that my friends have said. Some are goals of mine. And things I love. My plan was that anytime I am depressed, I can pull out some of those strips of paper and find the courage, find a reason to keep going. But my plan has a flaw. Because while it did give me joy and encouragement, it also gave me thoughts like: "they're wrong about you" "they'd be better off without you" "you won't amount to anything" "you're not good enough for that" "you don't work hard enough for you to actually love doing that" "you're wrong about that" "you can't even make it through a day, how are you going to have a life?"
I am my own worst saboteur. No one hurts me more than me. One reason I don't like being alone is that if I give my brain an inch it will destroy me.
I'm not writing this asking for sympathy. I'm asking for you to understand. Life isn't easy, even when you don't have a mental illness, and life with one can feel downright impossible. So please don't look down on us, or think we are just like you, don't call us liars, don't think that we are just begging for attention.
For some of us, that attention is all that's keeping us away from the edge. Don't assume that because someone smiles a lot and works hard and laughs loud, that they are fine.
Most people think that I am a laid back, happy-go-lucky, without a care in the world, sunshine rainbows and unicorns, kind of girl. But I'm not. This week I choreographed part of a modern dance piece, and showed it to my dance teacher and classmates. I turned off most of the lights, and had no music. It was a dark piece, inspired by the trauma and hardships I've gone through, and how it has left me terrified that it will all repeat again. In the piece I fell a lot (my knees still hurt), and my hair was down and in my face, and I punched the floor and flailed around, my glasses fell off, I ran around, and silently sobbed, and shook, and just when I seemed to be able to stand, I dropped to my knees again, put my head in my hands on the floor, and screamed. I think I made everyone uncomfortable. Because I showed them my inner darkness, when all they had known was a happy girl with a passion for theatre. After I performed that little piece of a dance, I was shaking, my anxiety habit of playing with my hands kicked in, I felt out of breath, and my voice trembled. I forced them all to see a dark and hurting person who was left screaming on the floor. And I forced myself to show it to them. And I felt relieved. After all, it's exhausting to wear a mask 24/7, of a persona so very different from how you truly feel.
Does this mean I'm never happy? No. I often feel happiness, especially when I'm with my friends, or performing in a show. Does this mean that I want to be coddled and have everyone constantly praising me? Hell No. I don't want special treatment, or for people to be extra gentle around me. In fact I want you to be brutally yourself, and speak to and around me with perfect candor. I just want you to be aware of my truth.
I have Depression. I have Anxiety. I have PTSD. They don't own me - though they sometimes take over. But they are a part of me, and now you know.
