I was speaking with a close friend earlier this evening and the topic of mental disorders came up. [[I suffer from clinical depression.]] We discussed how many young girls (teenagers, young adults) romanticize the disorders we legitimately suffer from. In a (characteristic) rant, I said the following.
Imagine you've got an enemy. You hate this enemy more than anyone else on the face of the planet. You are told that you have to be with this enemy. You're not allowed to kill them and you have to take care of them -- hold them, clean them, make sure they're safe. But your hatred for them seethes every time you know you have to do something for them. Now imagine this enemy is yourself.
Some days, you don't care what happens to you. Some days, you know that, if something were to happen to take your life, you wouldn't stop it. You'd step into the way. Sometimes the hate is a welcome change from feeling nothing.
Tell me you want that. Tell me you want to walk out through your front door and feel the first legitimate warmth you've felt in days. You don't even feel like you are running at normal people temperature. You're practically dead.
I'm better than I've been the last couple of weeks. I didn't help myself by sitting here quietly, losing myself in the internet, losing myself in music. I don't have that luxury now. I have an almost 3 year old. I have an almost 3 month old. I have a husband who works graveyards and needs to sleep during the day. I don't have the luxury of wallowing. If there is such a thing as functional depression, that's what I've got.
I helped myself by communicating. I'm a little rusty at it, but I did well, I think. I talked to my husband. I told him what I was feeling. Some of the people in the #bloggesstribe helped me, asking how I was. Good looking out. I'm glad you guys were there. I know this post is sort of everywhere -- I'm working on making my brain go in order. Maybe, though, it's not supposed to. Things to think about.
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