In the trash heap I call my room, I examine my options and possibilities.
The new year has arrived, and it doesn’t seem like a whole lot has changed. I would be naive to think everything would instantly change once the ball dropped, so trust me, that isn’t my mindset. Over time, though, it seems there has been a cushion period between the end of one year and a few days into the next year. In that period, people execute the beginnings of their resolutions and are still trying to figure stuff out. After this period, the new crazy starts to come out, and the year is in full swing.
Well, crazy came early, and that’s why my brain sucks.
It was New Year’s Eve. 2017 was a very shit year, and I was excited to bid it adieu. Of course, there were some truly wonderful things that happened, but this isn’t a post weighing the pros and cons of 2017 in totality. Instead, I want to focus on how a mood can change, and what it can lead to, in a relatively short amount of time.
I was excited to celebrate the new year’s arrival with people I cared about. However, one question asked back to home ended in anger and misunderstanding. I was so frustrated and baffled at how a simple question could blow up into something so much bigger than it needed to be. I was asked to not let it ruin my evening, but the damage was done.
Tears streaming down my face, I murmured to myself:
I mess everything up. I ruined it. I’m not a good person. I am a horrible person. I don’t deserve anything good. I’m the reason their New Year’s is ruined. I don’t deserve to be happy.
I looked around at my surroundings, and my eyes caught the sewing station. I looked over to where I knew there were multiple pairs of scissors, but I just hugged a pillow closer to my chest like a lifeline. The door wasn’t locked, and we were supposed to be leaving. No one could find me like that, so I just kept crying. I thought the monster was asleep, and perhaps I was right. But now, depression came flooding in—softly, casually, like it always had a place in my head. Like its return was inevitable.
When the door did open, I received quiet hugs, and I cried the pain out of my system. Although at some point, the pain doesn’t hurt in its traditional way anymore. It’s like what I said earlier about it returning like someone who’s been to your house a lot before in the past—there’s no alarm, just recognition that a familiar reality has returned. You don’t like it, but hey, what can you do?
People on the outside would know what to say, or at least think they know how to help. They suggest things that have helped them, advice they’ve received—if they’re helpful. If someone is less sympathetic, they reduce depression down to a simple, manageable emotion or state of mind. We are the cause of it all, they say, and changing ourselves can be the first step to healing. Because we aren’t sick; we’re just sad. Anyone who has truly suffered from depression, however, knows how shallow and unhelpful this suggestion is. There is another scenario though, the one in which you don’t talk about it at all. You think you’re doing it to protect yourself, but all it seems to do is make it darker for you.
There is one resolution I cannot make: to be better than my depression. I’m coming to grips with the fact that it’s always going to be a part of me, if not entirely me at times. I can’t afford treatment, therapy, medicine, anything that could reshape me from the glob that depression reduces me to. I know I started this blog as a way to realize the silver lining in times of trouble, but it seems this time, for me, giving up is the way to go.
I’m not going to fight a losing battle anymore. It’s a waste of my energy. I suppose the only thing I can say is that if you are currently fighting your own battle, don’t take a page from my book. Don’t give up, even if I have—even if my words don’t impact you, I still want you to keep fighting. I know that may be hypocritical of me to say after everything I’ve said before, but that is still something that I mean: keep fighting.