Depressed people are faking it

Yes, you read the title right.  No, it wasn’t clickbait.  And yes, I mean it.

Depressed people are faking it.  Every.  Fucking.  Day.

I fake it.  Your best friend fakes it.  The guy at the psych office fakes it.  And every single other person with depression is faking it.

And some of us are so fucking good at faking it you’d never be the wiser, no matter how smart you think you are, and no matter how in tune with us you think you are.  We are masters at this game.  You’re maybe just a little confused about what it is, exactly, we’re faking.

Cause it’s not the sadness, or the numbness, or the anger or the paranoia or the self-loathing or the lack of confidence or the lack of joy.  Nah, it’s not the tears or the beating ourselves up.  It’s not waking up and wishing we didn’t.  It’s not the persistently nagging, pessimistic thoughts that have claimed our heads as home.  Nope, unfortunately, all that stuff is pretty real.

Instead, we fake the rest.  The other stuff.  The normal.

Like when you’re stuck in a slump, balled up on the couch feeling sorry for yourself.  It’s hard to find the energy to even say a word to your significant other, and suddenly someone knocks on the door.  The lights are on; they know you’re home.  So you have no choice but to open the door and fake it.  And god damn, do you do it well.  You amaze yourself every time, because who is this person, and why couldn’t I find her five minutes ago?

It’s the same at work.  You sit in your car in the parking lot, taking your last chance to breathe alone.  You don’t want to be here.  You want to be home, in bed, alone, forever.  You almost stayed home today, but you forced yourself to get this far.  So you go.  And when you walk through the doors… you’re different; you’re okay for now.  Why couldn’t I be okay before?

It’s when you go to the grocery store, or order your coffee, or when you have to make a phone call.  You don’t know where it comes from, but somehow there seems to be a living soul inside your normally empty body.  You hear yourself speaking clearly, laughing along and being a social being and you just wish you could be that way all the time.

So why can’t you?  Why is it so easy sometimes and so hard as soon as the circumstances change?   The second your visitor leaves; as soon as you’re finished work; right when you hang up the phone; walk out of the store – you’re back to where you were.  No more faking it.

It’s weird, because in those moments I sometimes almost forget I’m faking it.  I ride the wave as long as I can, but eventually I crash.   And usually once I do,  I am completely depleted.  It’s like going out for a joyride and not noticing you’re running on empty.  And then – BOOM, it’s over.  You’re out of fuel.  You crash and burn and it takes a lot to get you going again.

I fake it a lot.  I do it to get by.  It’s necessary for survival.  I can’t change how I’m feeling, but sometimes shit has to get done.  I can try to muster up the courage on my own – I can try to psych myself up to go out into the world.  Some days it’s no problem at all.  Other days, it’s impossible, and it won’t happen unless it has to happen.  So, I fake it.  I’m really good at it – I’ve fooled a lot of people.  And you know what?  I’m not the only one who does it.  I bet you know someone who’s been fooling you, too.

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Recognizing your ‘normal’

This is something I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember, and I know I’m not the only one.

It’s not all that surprising – when your mood changes, your thoughts, opinions and feelings are bound to be affected too.  And when that’s something that happens around the clock, without notice, it gets hard to pinpoint who’s the impostor and who’s the real you.

Sometimes I’m a pessimistic, angry, inconsiderate witch who says horrible things to the people I love most.  Other times, I’m the kind of person who makes handmade gifts, sends random messages of encouragement to a friend, or buys coffee for the person behind me at the drive-thru.   There are days I wake up in a loud, smiling, energetic mood.  And then there are the days where I am nothing but a silent blob, breaking code only to cry.

So which one is really me??

Obviously, I’d like to say it’s the generous, happy-go-lucky girl who can do no wrong.  But I have to admit that’s not the case.  It’s hard to pinpoint where (if) Becca ends and depression, mania, schizo-shit, what-have-you, take over.  And it’s easy to say, “this isn’t you,” to someone who is depressed. But is it true?

I know I’ve heard it before and I certainly didn’t believe it when it was said to me.  And even now, in a ‘sounder’ mind, I don’t really agree with it.  Of course it’s me.  Who else was it if it wasn’t me?

Don’t worry, I’m going to elaborate.

I’ll start by saying my overwhelmingly dark days have been drastically reduced.  I’m still on a rollercoaster, but for now, the big loops and turns are behind me.  I haven’t had more than 3 consecutive days of hell in over a year.  Coming from someone who used to get stuck in black holes for months at a time, that’s a serious improvement.

In my personal opinion, I am my depression/mania/schizo-shit, and my depression/mania/schizo-shit is me.  I know this goes against what I’ve said in the past, and it certainly goes against what everyone tells you about your depression not defining you.  But I’m just trying a different approach because the other one simply doesn’t work for me anymore.

Subconsciously, I think being told “this isn’t you,” ate away at me for a long time.  People used to say it to me a lot, especially when I was stuck in a cloud.  I was hurting inside and I didn’t know why.  They wanted to help, so they told me that’s not who I was; this sadness isn’t the bubbly Becca they knew. Eventually, I think it got to the point where I started to believe it, but not how they intended.   It made me feel like I really had lost myself, and that I wasn’t ever coming back.  Becca was gone and depression took her place.  And as much as I didn’t want to believe I had turned into this broken down piece of a person… I had.    I had been beaten down by my own psyche, and I was so afraid at the fact that I didn’t even know myself anymore.  I tried to remember who I was ‘before’, and I couldn’t do it.   I had no idea who I was with or without depression.

A whole lot of love and support has led me to a different thought process.

All of this is me.  All of these traits are who I am.  And that’s fine.

On my bad days, I am me.
On my good days, I am me.
On my ‘normal days’, I am me.

In short, my depression is me, and I am my depression… but I’m a lot of other things too.

I live, act, feel and love in extremes.  Unfortunately that means sometimes I lose control.  It means that some people can’t handle me.  It means that sometimes I’m hard to understand.  It means that sometimes I hurt people.  But it also means I love with an exploding heart.

I’m done fighting my own image.  I am who I am as I am.
Trying to separate pieces of my identity is tedious and unnecessary.
This is who I am, and I’d rather just deal with it.

Why I haven’t posted in over a month

I haven’t had health insurance since I left to go on my backpacking trip in April of last year.  Before my insurance expired, I refilled all of my prescriptions. Even though I had gradually reduced the amount of medication I was taking – to make the supply last longer – as happens, it eventually ran out in the summer.  I didn’t refill it until this January, when I was at the doctor’s,  paying out of pocket for a completely unrelated reason.  While I was there, I figured I’d ask how much I would have to pay for my prescriptions without insurance. To my utter bewilderment (not to mention pure joy), it costs less than 60 euros for a 3+ month supply. Wow.  I had been expecting a bill of several hundred euro, which is why I had been putting it off for so long.  Naturally I got both prescriptions refilled and began taking them again the very same night. Relief. Remember, I’ve been on the on/off medication train several times.  Sometime last year, I finally accepted – and embraced – my meds, and their power to help me.  I wanted them back.

So why haven’t I posted about this, considering how relative it is to my whole journey?

In mid January, I posted about self harm.  What I failed to mention was the fact that I cut myself the same night I wrote the post. I didn’t want people to know.  I want to give people hope, an example of things getting better. I want them to read my words and imagine moving past this negative stage and back onto happiness.  I don’t want them to read my earlier posts of improvement and good times, only to then see that I’ve failed again. Because naturally, with a depressed mind, seeing me fall means there’s no hope for them either. That’s not the message I want to send.

Anti depressants are not instant fixes.  They will not make you better overnight.  In fact, often times, they’ll make you worse before they help you at all.  But once you get past the initial tough stage, it becomes worth it.  You can feel again.  You can think again.  You can get yourself out of bed again.  You can socialize again – hell, you want to socialize again.

That rough spot began in early January for me, and lasted until about three weeks ago.  I wrote that post, felt like a hypocrite for not telling the real story, and just left the blog alone. A little while later, I got a comment on a post, simply asking me if I was happy.  I couldn’t bring myself to respond. I didnt want to lie.  But I also didnt want to tell him the truth – that no, I wasn’t happy.  At least not right then and there.  So I just ignored the comment. And the blog altogether.

And then, soon after, the rough storm turned into a sunny afternoon with a beautiful rainbow. I felt better.  Again, I had one of those “it’s working” moments.  It’s funny how it sneaks up on you – gradually, you improve, but it happens over time and it’s hard to pinpoint when things got better.  And then, one afternoon, I was sitting on my kitchen floor, listening to Sia and drinking a chai.  And I smiled to myself because at that same time mere weeks before, I had called in sick to work because the thought of leaving my bed left me feeling  crippled.  I noticed how far I had come, and how calm I felt, and I smiled again, happy that I was back.

I haven’t posted because the first couple of weeks were spent feeling sorry for myself, while the remaining ones were spent surrounded by friends, good food and fantastic fun. I was so busy enjoying everything that I never took the time to write.

So, to the person who asked me if I was happy: 

I’m not happy everyday. Sometimes, I go days, weeks, even months, being unhappy.  I have times where I want nothing to do with being alive. I have times when I’m angry at myself, or the world around me. I have times where life seems pointless, and happiness seems fake.

And then, overall, above everything; all of the negative; all of the days I want to die, are the days where I am so, so, so incredibly happy.

After living in a dark, cloudy mind for so long, the sun seems to shine that much brighter once it finally does come out.  I feel the joy a million times over. I revel in it. I spread it. I sing at the top of my lungs in crowded – and empty – bars.  I cook (and also order, let’s be real here) delicious food with friends. I look forward to going to work, and planning fun activities with the toddler I am so lucky to take care of. I smile. I laugh. I make a fool out of myself. I have fun. I am happy.

Of course, sometimes that euphoric feeling is nothing but a manic phase. Sometimes I even have to ask myself, “am I happy or am I manic?” And I can never really know for sure. But it doesn’t really matter. The fact is I feel the joy and that’s enough for me, as long as I keep myself in control.

Any mental illness is a journey.  Every journey takes a different road, or takes a different turn.  Keeping up with yourself is important – checking in with your thoughts, keeping track of your feelings and major events. It helps to understand yourself when you can look back at what you’ve said, done, or felt, and view it with a different part of you. That’s what this blog is to me. I try to be as honest and open as possible, and then I go back and read through things later on.

So. To conclude, this rollercoaster ride is still going.  I’m buckled in tight, and I’m not getting off any time soon. 
I’m going to enjoy the ride as much as I can, when I can.  And I hope you do too.