Right now, it’s back.

It’s back.
Was it ever really gone?
It goes away for a while; it gives me a break;
it reminds me how it feels to be alive.

For a moment.

And then it comes back,
and it hits me harder each time it does.

I remembered the happiness- I felt it. I lived it. 
I swam in it and I soaked it in.
And now I’m drowning again, but in very different waters,
and I can’t remember how it feels to swim.

I know I was happy yesterday.
But today makes me doubt that truth.
I know I am alive. I know I can fight.
But right now I just don’t want to.
Right now I don’t have the energy.
Right now I want to melt away.
Right now I want to go straight down the drain.
Right now, I want to disappear.

I hope that by tomorrow, the waters will have changed.
I hope that by next week, today will be the memory.
I hope that by next month, I’ll have nicer things to say.
But right now, in this moment, I want everything to end.
Right now, in this moment,
I want to close my eyes,
And let the ocean lull me off to sleep.

Disclaimer: I’m not going to hurt myself in any way. Don’t worry, and don’t freak out. I might be feeling like I’m at the end, but I know I’m not. Sadly, this is my reality far too often.  Just thought I’d share something different from the usual posts. I hope I didn’t upset anyone with this.

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A week in the psych ward

When my doctor told me I had to stay at the psychiatric hospital, I had to decide what to do about work.  I was working full time at a kindergarten.  Although the German health care system ensures you are paid for any work missed due to documented medical reasons, I wasn’t sure what to tell my employer.  Should I be honest, and risk ridicule or a change in people’s perception of me, or should I lie and say I was home with the flu, and have no one be the wiser?

At this stage, I was worried about that sort of thing.  I didn’t want anyone to see me as weak – I mean, after all, I was missing work for being ‘sad,’ wasn’t I?  Of course there is much more to it than that – but depressives don’t always give themselves enough credit.  And, let’s face it: unfortunately there is still a strong stigma, and not everyone is empathetic or understanding.

After much consideration, I ultimately decided to tell only one person at work the truth, and I told the rest I had bronchitis – that was believable because it happened to be going around the school at the time.  Apart from one colleague, everyone at work was left in the dark.  I preferred it that way.  They didn’t need to know.  My opinion on this matter – believe it or not – has not really changed.

So, along came that dreaded, long-awaited Monday morning.  Nick and I woke up, I threw some clothes and basic essentials in a bag, and we set off.  The hospital was only two subway stations away – I was about to be locked up a mere five minutes away from my comfort zone.  Somehow, that made everything worse – so close to home, yet so far from normalcy.  As we were sitting in the waiting room, organizing paperwork, I contemplated getting up and leaving – going back home to bed, pretending like nothing had happened.

We were sent upstairs, greeted by a nurse upon arrival.  I immediately didn’t like the place.  It was so cold and sterile.  There was no life in that building.  All doors were locked; a nurse and a key required for everything.  I was shown to my bed and Nick and I said our goodbyes. I knew I was going to see him later that night – he had promised to visit me – but despite that knowledge, I felt lonely and abandoned when he left. Everything was so foreign to me (in every possible way) and the thought of facing it all alone was not a happy one.

I was introduced to Evie – one of my three roommates, who happened to be ten times crazier than I was.  She was a very nice woman. I feel bad saying she’s a big part of why I felt so uncomfortable.

Just a reminder: I am Canadian, but I live in Germany.  I do speak German, however it is not my native language and therefore not my language of comfort. Handling such a sensitive situation would have been difficult already, and I had given myself the added stress of facing it in a foreign language.

Soon after my arrival, one of the nurses came to sit down with me.  She had a stack of papers, a whack of questionnaires to fill out together.  We sat and spoke for about twenty minutes.

Why are you here? – My doctor insisted.
You’re not German, I see.  Where are you from? – All the way from Canada to a German psych ward.
What sort of symptoms have you had?  – What symptoms haven’t I had?
Are you suicidal?  – Isn’t everyone?
(I was very cynical.)

I was told all about the daily routine:  7:00am wake up.  Check the schedule upon waking up – if your name is on the list, go for blood work before breakfast.  8:00am breakfast.  Medication rounds.  Meetings with doctors/therapy sessions.  Lunch at 11:30am.  Medication rounds, where required. Visiting hours.  Dinner at 5:00pm.  Medication rounds, where required. More visiting hours.  Quiet time after 8:00pm.  9:00pm: final medication round.  Lights out at 10:00pm.  Try to sleep through the noise of disturbed people all around you.

The schedule didn’t sound so bad (apart from the 7am wakeup, of course). I was happy to hear that I had lots of time for visits, and even happier to find out that I was allowed to leave the building during those hours.  The nurse was sure to remind me that – at least until they got to know my patterns and behaviours – I would not be permitted to leave without supervision.

After the nurse told me all she set out to tell me, I found myself alone in my room, desperately wanting to go home.  I knew there was a common room where I could entertain myself with board games, cards and fellow crazy people, but I wasn’t particularly interested in any of it. 

As I was lying in my new bed crying, Evie came in and started talking my ear off.  She spoke incredibly fast, and it was sometimes difficult to understand her.  She’d ask me all kinds of questions, but she never gave me enough time to answer before she moved on to the next one.  She was very friendly, and wanted to introduce me to everyone else in the ward.  I didn’t want to make friends.

That hospital had been home to Evie for over six months by the time I met her, and she had no idea when she would be allowed to leave.  Unlike me, Evie wasn’t there voluntarily.  Even more unlike me, she was more than happy to stay.

My first meeting with the doctor was pretty uneventful.  He asked me the same questions the nurse already had, and set up some appointments for the upcoming days – blood work, electrocardiography and an MRI.  He also gave me a few questionnaires to fill out, to help with coming to a diagnosis.

In the afternoons and evenings, I was lucky enough to have friends come and visit me.  I don’t think I spent a single afternoon alone.  That helped keep me sane, but also reminded me of how much I knew I didn’t want to stay there anymore.

At the end of the day, I just felt like the hospital was not the place for me to get better.  Being surrounded by so many people whose mental afflictions were much more severe than mine just reminded me of where I might end up one day.  I didn’t like that constant reminder.  For me, it was easier to imagine myself living a normal, happy life if I was surrounded by normal, happy people.  I felt like the hospital brought me further into my illness instead of bringing me to a point where I believed I could combat it.

This is not the same for everyone, as I learned from Evie.   She improved there.  She actually got the help she needed there, because it was the best, most comfortable option for her, and she wanted it.  She needed the stability.  She needed to be woken up every day.  She needed to meet with doctors.  She needed to have her meals prepared and placed in front of her three times day.  She needed routine created for her, because if left to her own devices, she’d never have it.  I didn’t feel that was true for me.

I decided one week was enough.  I was checking myself out.  The doctors and nurses tried their best to convince me to stay.  They reiterated again and again that constant observation and supervision was the best way to diagnose me.  I agreed.  However, I protested and stood my ground.  I was leaving.  I didn’t want to risk coming to a graver diagnosis, and I felt that was the only possible outcome if I stayed at the hospital.  With reluctance, they wrote a synopsis of my stay and passed all necessary information onto my psychiatrist.

I left with a diagnosis of “suspected bipolar disorder, type 2”. Several months later, I finally made a follow-up appointment with my psychiatrist.  Several months after that, I was diagnosed again.  This time, with schizo-affective disorder.  And thus began my “recovery.”

24, Broke and Happy

Today, I turned 24, and  I am not who i thought i would be.  I did not envision myself being so lost and unsure about life at 24.  I realise I’m still a baby in the eyes of some (and in the grand scheme of things to some degree), and i have heaps of time to figure  this whole “life” business out.  But still: this is not the life i expected to be living at the age of 24.

I did not think i’d be “unemployed” and i did not anticipate that i’d be hopping between continents, unable to decide where the hell i belong at any given moment.  I did not think i’d have a recent history of attempted suicide, psych ward visits and a body full of scars and necessary chemicals.

However, none of this means i am not entirely thrilled by, and proud of, the person i am today.

A year ago, i had my sincerest doubts that i’d live to celebrate another birthday.  I thought i was terminally ill.  I thought my schizo-affective disorder and depression were going to kill me, and the scariest part was knowing they would use my very own hands to get the job done.

But I fought.  And i fought hard.  But i did not fight alone.

In the last year, i have gone through a lot of changes.  I have grown a lot.  I have matured.  I have gotten wiser with each and every day that has gone by, and with every conversation i have been a part of. This year has been the longest (and somehow also the shortest), most testing of my life.  But also the best.

I want to say thank you to every single person in my life. I would not be the same without you.  I would not be here without you.  I would not be able to do what I do without your unending and unconditonally loving support.

One of the many things I have learned this year is that i can really help people. By simply speaking my mind and posting my rawest thoughts on the internet, I can help people.

And my will to do so has never been stronger.

To my friends, my family, my acquaintances – old and new alike – and even to the strangers I have yet to meet: thank you from the bottom of my heart and soul.  I owe you my life and in return for that, i’ll do whatever I can to remind the world of the lessons I have learned with your help: a mental illness does not have to be a death sentence.

I’ve been on this road a while, and I’m certainly  not cured.  I’m sure as hell not perfect.  I’m still fighting, and chances are I always will be.  But i will never fight alone again.  And if I can help it, neither will anyone else.

I love you all. Here’s to being 24, broke and happy!

Do you love someone with depression?

lovesomeonewithdepression

I’m working on writing an article from the “outsider’s” perspective.
IE: the significant other-, the close friend-, the relative- of a person with depression.

If anyone could volunteer their input on this, I’d be ever-so-grateful! Either comment here if you’re comfortable with open discussion, or send me a private message or email (23brokeandhappy@gmail.com).

QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER:
-when did their depression begin?
or, had it always been going on?
-how did you recognize their symptoms?
-did they reject support/treatment at any stage? if so, how did you react?
-did you approach them, or had they already sought help?
-what was the most difficult thing for you to understand?
-what hurt you the most to see or hear?
-is there anything you wish you had done differently?

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY:
-what’s the number one thing you hope they always remember?

THANKS GUYS!! xxx
(if you could SHARE THIS, i’d greatly appreciate it!
I’d like to get as many responses as possible to paint a relatable picture.)

love you aaaaall!!
Becca

Leading up to the Psych Ward

When I finally got into a psychiatrist, one of the first things he told me was that he wanted me to spend some time in a Psychiatric hospital.

A thousand thoughts started running through my mind at once.  Was I going to have to quit my job?  How long would I have to stay?  Did I have to sleep there?  Was I allowed to leave?  Why did I have to go there?  Was I crazy?!

I started thinking to myself, “no, I’m not crazy,” and before I even finished the thought, I remembered that “crazy people don’t think they’re crazy.”  That worried me even more.  I was fully aware that I had already begun to lose touch with reality for short periods of time, but I was terrified that I was even further gone than I’d realized.

“It’s the best way to get a clear diagnosis,” he told me.  He assured me that I was still psychologically stable enough to make my own choices, and he therefore couldn’t force me into anything I didn’t want to do.  He couldn’t admit me to the hospital against my will.

My next thought was, “okay great, so I won’t go.”

He wasn’t about to give up that easily, though.  He listed reason after reason why it was a good idea for me to go.  And eventually, I agreed – not without reluctance, however.  This all took place on a Thursday afternoon, and my bed at the hospital was reserved for the following Monday.  I was to stay two weeks.

I left my appointment that day feeling like I had failed myself.  I never imagined that anyone would think it necessary for me to stay in the psych ward.  I had never pictured myself in the situation I was now finding myself in, and I didn’t like the way it felt.  I called up Nick and I cried on the phone to him, telling him everything that had just transpired.  As always, he was supportive however he knew how to be, and assured me that the doctors knew the best route to take.

That didn’t ease my mind.  Although I knew that at this point my visit was voluntary, I managed to convince myself that they’d find something seriously wrong with me and I’d never be let out.  I was going to spend the rest of my life locked up in the loony bin.

Hello, anxiety.  Hello, paranoia.  Hello, delusional thinking.

My mind was a roller coaster.  My thoughts were strapped in, looping around and around, up and down, shaking me up as they went.

By the next day, I was in a full-blown depression.  I was dreading the trip to the hospital, and I couldn’t focus on anything else.  I came home from work that Friday evening and decided to go for a walk to try and clear my mind.  I didn’t take anything with me – not my phone, not my keys, not even a jacket.  It was just me and my crazy roller coaster mind.

I don’t know how long I was gone.  I wandered aimlessly for hours.  I stood on the bridge overlooking the river, then walked down, staring at the water for far too long.  I must have faded away from myself for a while, because the next thing I knew, I was sat at the train station near my house, just watching the trains go by.  I was sat at the end of the tracks – I always did that, because if I ever got the courage to jump, I wanted to be close enough to do it before I changed my mind.

Thankfully I never got the courage.

I don’t remember much from that night.  I remember being at the subway station, and then I remember standing outside my apartment building, reaching up to ring my own bell.  I was buzzed in, and I slowly climbed up the stairs.  Nick was running down them, panic-stricken, asking me where I had been, what I had been doing, what I had taken.

“Out.  I don’t know.  Nothing.”  Zombie-toned responses, expressionless face.

Although I was completely out of it, I hadn’t actually taken anything that night.  There was an open bottle of ibuprofen on the counter, and Nick thought I had gotten into it.  I hadn’t.  I had learned by that stage, through trial and error, that ibuprofen was just not going to get the job done.

Nick brought me inside, questioned me some more, and told me he had been so worried that he had been asking everyone if they had heard from me – he even had people on their way over to help look for me.

I was mad.  Furious. How many times had I told him not to tell people things about me?

I went into the bedroom, and Nick retreated back to the kitchen.  His senses were always on high when I was in a state, so it’s no wonder he heard me opening up the window, and was back in the room with me before I managed to climb up into it.  He stopped me well before I even attempted jumping.

I stormed out of the bedroom, probably en route to the kitchen for a knife, and I screamed bloody murder when I saw a friend in our living room.  He had just come in – he was already on his way over when I stumbled home.  I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there with us, and it shocked me so badly that I was sent into a sort of panic attack.  It also sent my anger over the edge, and I was instantly determined to do something, I just didn’t know what.

I can’t begin to describe the thoughts that were going through my mind at this stage, because I sincerely do not remember.  I can’t put myself back into that moment of time, because I wasn’t there with myself.  That person was not me.

I closed the bedroom door, claiming I wanted to just be alone, and when I thought no one was listening, I opened up the window again.  I climbed into the window sill, stood on the ledge, looking down four stories, as the bedroom door swung open behind me.  Nick bolted in, got me down from the window, and begged me to stay away from it.

He told me the bedroom door had to stay open now – I had proved to him that I couldn’t be trusted.

He said he’d leave me alone, but he’d be in the next room, with plain-sight view of the two windows.

I told Nick that I wanted the friend gone.  He said okay.  He left the room, I heard the door, and that was that.  I calmed down.  I got into bed.

I was just coming back into myself when I saw two men walk into my bedroom.  I didn’t know them.

I sat straight up, bewildered, and they spoke to me, in German, asking if I was okay.

Paramedics.

I told them I was fine now.  I knew I had to admit what had happened, because I was sure they already knew.  I told them I had had a bad moment – that yes, I had attempted to jump from the window, but I wouldn’t do it again; that I was calm now; that I was okay.

They stayed there and spoke to me for a while, suggesting they bring me to a hospital in Nussbaumstrasse – the very hospital that had a bed with my name on it reserved for two days later.  I told them I was going there on Monday, and that I would be okay at home until then.

All they had me do was promise them that I wouldn’t hurt myself.  I promised.  I could have easily been lying.

The medication works

For a while, I was convinced my doctor was giving me placebos.  I was certain he thought I was making everything up; that I was simply imagining my symptoms.  I thought there was absolutely no way he would prescribe me with real medication.  Even after researching the pills I had been prescribed, and getting them from the pharmacy with a complete list of ingredients, I thought they were fake.

I was positive that my doctor was just waiting for me to say I felt better.  And I thought that when I finally did, he’d say, “I told you so.”

I never thought the medication worked, until I found myself in the middle of a genuine, heart-felt laugh. 

I remember exactly where I was.  I was sitting on a train in Berlin, with my friend Charlynn.  I don’t remember why I was laughing, I just remember that I was – and it felt like the first time in my life that I ever had.

It wasn’t a laugh concealing a frown this time.  It wasn’t a laugh to trick people into thinking I was fine.  It wasn’t a laugh with a hidden agenda.  It was simply a real, happy, spontaneous laugh.

I caught myself in that laugh and I realized that I was finally okay again.  I knew I still had a long way to go, but for once I felt like I could actually get there.  Finally something was helping.

At this point, I had been taking my medication as directed for about two months – it took that long to notice any sort of change. I had thrown the pills in the garbage on more than one occasion before deciding to just stick with it.  Had I stuck with it from the beginning, that laugh probably would have happened a lot sooner.  But it didn’t, and that’s fine.

My relationship with my medication didn’t change right then and there.  While I realized I hadn’t been taking placebos after all, I still didn’t like the fact that I needed to be medicated in the first place.  I thought it was embarrassing that I had to ingest these little things every day just to be normal.  I hated my pills.  I resented my pills.  I saw my pills as a weakness.  I saw my medication as a problem in itself, even though I was fully aware it was meant to be part of a solution to a different problem.

Eventually I realized that it’s just a pill – that’s all it is!

It’s not a sign of a weakness, and it’s not a bad thing.  It’s a pill; a medication to help me get better.  Everyone needs a little bit of help with something – I happen to need a little bit of help balancing my mind.  And that is perfectly okay!

The medication works, and I am so thankful that it does.  Because for a long time, I was certain nothing would.

Here’s why you should talk about suicide

Suicide is the loss of a life at the hands of the very person living it.  It is raw, and it is scary.

Suicide is a sensitive subject – one that not everyone is comfortable with. People often shy away from talking about suicide because it’s not something they want to accept as relevant – they’d rather ignore it and hope it goes away.

Unfortunately this creates a vicious cycle, as it instills a fear in the suicidal – they are afraid that they will be judged and ridiculed for acknowledging their demons, and so they choose to suffer silently.  If people don’t openly talk about suicide, those suffering from its hold will not feel comfortable in coming forward to ask for help. They will be much more likely to succumb to their dark thoughts if they aren’t confident someone can help in fighting them off.

The depressive suicidal don’t believe in getting better – they don’t believe it’s possible.  They feel like they are stuck.  Hope is a foreign concept.  They don’t know what hope means anymore because they’ve forgotten what they’re being hopeful for.  They’ve forgotten what it feels like to be happy, and so they feel like happiness just doesn’t exist for them.  They aren’t hopeful they’ll get better because they can’t imagine a different life for themselves; they don’t remember life before depression took over.

Although society is headed in the right direction, there is still a strong stigma attached to mental health disorders and suicide.  We can’t fight that stigma with silence, and so we need to get people talking.

We need to open up.  We need to share our stories.  Because by sharing our stories, we can open eyes.

We can save lives.

Many of those we speak to will have never experienced this sort of thing for themselves.  Some might have a friend, a sibling, a parent or a child, who has.  We might be speaking to some people who have never ever knowingly been touched by suicide.

However, I can guarantee that we will also be speaking to people who have.  We might even unknowingly speak to someone who already has a plan.

We can be the reminder to that person that there is another way, even if they can’t see it right now.

We can be the reminder that they’re not alone, even if it feels like they are.

We can be the reminder that it’s okay to talk about it – and that they should talk about it.

We can be the reminder that they can get help; that things can change – that things can get better.

We can be the reminder that suicide doesn’t always win.

Music and Writing

Music is the world’s favourite form of expression, and a solace for many.  No matter the emotion you’re feeling, there is a song that relates.

My favourite artist alive today would have to be Sia.  Despite her music being everywhere, Sia stays in the background, where she likes to be.  She doesn’t want her face plastered on magazines, she doesn’t want to star in make up ads – she wants people to listen to her, and not focus on how she looks.  She happens to have a lot to say.

Apart from being extremely vocally talented, Sia seems to write directly from her soul.

I wrote this poem by rearranging lyrics from various Sia songs.  I feel like it shows just how much she really understands the afflictions many of us deal with in some form or another.  I hope you enjoy!


I wake up with a blind headache,
feels a bit like I might explode.
Electricity floods my brain,
and I can’t hide the pain.

I’m crying out – I’m breaking down.
I’m a mess; a fool; an empty space.
I am one single grain of sand,
going down the drain.

But I’m holding on for dear life.
I’m trying not to fall apart.

And while it’s a heavy load,
carrying those tears around,
death by crying doesn’t exist.
The tears on my pillow will dry,
and I will learn.

The pain may fill me,
but this is only right now.
There is hope for me.
The pain will not kill me.

I stand tall.
I know that I can survive.
I am strong.
Yesterday is gone and I will be okay;
I am a blank page waiting for life to start.

Giving up on Depression

When I’m depressed, I can’t remember what it feels like to be happy. I forget that I’ve been happy before. I believe I’ve been like this forever: this is the only state of mind I’ve ever been in, and it’s the only state of mind I will ever be in.

If somebody on the outside is telling me, “it gets better,” or “you’ll be fine.” It just makes me more angry. All I can think in those moments is, “yeah that’s you. You might feel better later. You can remember what it’s like to be happy. Yeah, that’s you – that’s not me.”

I get so delusional when I’m depressed that there is no convincing me – at least not from a third party. When I read my own words, though, there’s just no denying it. So when I’m in a good mood, I try to write about it. And then I read it when I’m depressed.

Sometimes I think, “yeah well, I felt like that before, but I’m never gonna feel that way again.”  But in the back of my mind, there’s always that thought that, no- you know what- that was me. Those were my thoughts. And if I’ve been there before, after I’ve been in a state like this, then it’ll happen again; I will climb out of this.

When I’m depressed, I think that everyone is against me. I think that I’m useless and I think that nobody wants to be around me, and the only reason people are – if they are – is because they feel bad for me, or they feel guilty, or they feel responsible. I hate myself and I can’t even imagine how anyone could feel any differently.

I forget that people are there with me because they want to be. They’re there for me because of the non-depressed me. They remember the real me, who’s hiding somewhere underneath this blanket of depression that is sometimes all too consuming. They remember that person and they want to help fight to get her back. That’s why they’re there.

On one hand, I want someone there with me. I want to know I’m not alone.

But on the other hand, I don’t want anyone around because I don’t want anyone subjected to my negativity and I don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone.

I want to just cry, and feel bad for myself, and ignore everything else in the world and just live in my fucking miserable bubble. Because it’s really all I feel like I can do.

These are the thoughts that are going through my mind:
“I’m a piece of shit.”
“Everyone hates me.”
“They want to have their own life without me in it.”

When I’m in a better state of mind, I feel bad for myself and for the fact that I cant realise how much people actually love me. 

I don’t think anyone really resents the person that’s projecting these feelings. They resent the depression – the thing that’s making the person be that person, because they’re not that person.

So this is what I want to say, to anyone who recognizes the feelings I described above:

This isn’t who you are. This is a state that you’re in. This is something that can be dealt with.

You feel like there is no light at the end of the tunnel. You feel totally useless and helpless, and hopeless, and worthless. You feel like you’re not even here anymore – you feel like you’ve already died. And on top of that, you genuinely believe that nobody actually wants you around.

You think that you’re taking away their fun. You think that you’re taking away all of the happy feelings that they could be feeling, that they cant be feeling because they’re busy feeling your sadness with you. But they can always leave – they can walk away. If they don’t want to be there for you then they don’t have to be there for you.

There’s always gonna be people who just don’t get it. People who just brush you off – the worst is when people accuse you of making shit up. They just don’t understand. They never will. And that’s okay.

Nobody wants to see you sad. But it’s okay that you are. People can help you get out of that sadness. Whether it’s therapy, binge watching a tv show and pigging out on ben and jerry’s with a friend – you don’t have to say a word. Whether it’s medication, or going for a run, or reading a book and forgetting about yourself for an hour or two.

Or whether it’s feeling everything that you’re feeling – all of those terrible emotions. Let them consume you for a bit. Feel shitty. Feel terrible. Feel awful. Feel everything and then let yourself become numb to it. And then, take a deep breath. Cry yourself to sleep. And then get up in the morning and read your happy thoughts. Try to picture yourself at the moment you wrote it – try to remember how great you felt. The same person who wrote those happy things is the same person who’s feeling shitty right now.

You were happy. You can be happy again.

Don’t give up. Even if it’s all you wanna do. Because even if you can’t see a future for yourself right now… you still have one. And you can figure out what it is.

Just don’t give up.

Help me instead of hating me

For me, writing has always been a sort of solace.  If I’m feeling overwhelmed by my thoughts, I write to get them out and organize them.  I have countless word documents on my computer from over the years. Most of them are short; just a few lines I wrote when I needed to vent.  I typically feel the need to vent when I’m in a bad state, and so a lot of my writing is quite sad.  Some of it, though, is downright scary – even for me.  It’s those documents that remind me of how very real depression is.

I make an effort to write when I’m in a happy mood, too.  I write to myself so I can read it when I’ve fallen back into a depression.  I read my own happy thoughts as a reminder that I’ve been there before, and I can get there again.

Although I am feeling strong right now, not everyone is.  And I wasn’t always.  The following is a rework of many recurring thoughts I’ve had when I’ve been depressed.

I’ve written it to anyone who is trying to support a person suffering from depression.  I get that it can be exhausting to care for someone who doesn’t seem to respond to your attempts to help.  I wrote this, hoping to provide some perspective – to both parties.

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You may never say it, but I know you resent me.  At least sometimes.

You resent me for holding you back.  You resent me because you don’t want to be stuck here, looking after me.  You are annoyed by me.  You wish I had no problems, so you could go out and do whatever you want, whenever you want, and never have to worry about me.

I’m sorry to put you through this. 

I get that it’s hard for you, too.  You want to understand but you can’t.  You can’t because you’ve never experienced this – and I am so glad for that, because believe me: this fucking sucks. 

You want to provide solutions.  You want to fix my problems.  But you can’t.

You know this isn’t my fault, but sometimes you forget.  Sometimes you get mad at me for being such a downer.  And sometimes, you do blame me – you say it is my fault, and that if I’d just get out of bed, everything would be fine. 

No.  It’s not that simple, although I wish it were – and I know you wish the same.

I want so badly to want to do things.  I want so badly to want to go out.  I want so badly to want to be social.  But I don’t want to.  I can’t want to.  No matter how hard I try to want to.

I want to believe that people like me, and that they want to be around me.  But I can’t believe it.  My mind won’t allow me to believe it.

I know that my negative attitude brings my negative thoughts to life: I know that no one wants to be around someone who is sad all the time.  You don’t need to remind me of that.

Try to remember that I can’t help it.  I didn’t choose this.  It chose me, I guess.

Support me by reminding me that this is now; this is not forever

Validate my feelings, because what I’m feeling is real.  Accept the fact that I am the way I am right now: I am sad.  I am feeling worthless, useless, and hopeless.  Validate me, and then remind me that you’re here for me; that WE will get through this together.

I know you’ll have moments where you resent me.  That’s okay.  This isn’t a walk in the park for you, either.  Just try to remember it’s not me you’re resenting: it’s the depression. 

Help me instead of hating me.