I wrote this three months ago when I was really sad.
Mental health is a really hard thing to talk about. I am more afraid to talk about my depression than I am to post a picture of myself naked on the internet. Naked, I can justify to people, I can explain and defend it to anyone—inexplicable, incapacitating sadness is so much harder.
And I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to explain to anyone how horrible I feel. There is so much shame in this. And the shame infects other things. I’m ashamed of my brain and of my body and my lack of motivation, and my constant fear. The fear is overpowering. And it just grows. It seeps into my bones. It takes hold and now I’m built of fear, it’s holding me down while pretending to be holding me up. Because it’s my bones, I’d need to switch out my skeleton to beat this fear.
And it’s hard to make words express it, and it’s impossible to make images show it. And I keep hearing people tell other people how much it helps to talk about mental illness—on tv I watch famous athletes and tv personalities tell me to talk about it—but fuck. I don’t want to tell any of this to anyone. I’m sad because my body is no longer mine. Because my words don’t work. Because my love is fading. And I believe I have no right to feel this way.
Sometimes I wish I never learned the things I did. Or that the strain in the back of my throat would go away; being on-the-verge-of is tiresome and I’m tired enough.
It’s strange to look at that and remember how afraid I was of living, and how terrified I was of sharing that. It’s also strange to know I will feel like that again. At the time I didn’t want to tell anyone about it, but now I do want to share because I know that when I read about how other people go through this same thing, I don’t feel as useless. I created a whole other tumblr to talk about my sadness and try to deal with it, but then shared it with only two other people and couldn’t even deal with any conversations that came from my posts, and then just stopped posting. I was afraid of talking about it, telling anyone about it, showing anyone how I felt, and tried really hard to just deal with it. Dealing with something you’re afraid and ashamed of is really hard. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing it for 13 years, it’s only when I’m out of the sadness that I can even think about telling other people about it. Maybe because then I can feel confident that the sadness is not who I am.
I’m trying to think of a way to elevate this conversation and think of something I learn from these bouts of debilitating sadness, but I’m not so sure there’s any good to come out of it. Except that I come out of it. And the only reason I do is because I rely on other people to hold me and lift me. I hate doing that because it always makes me feel worse before I feel better. But eventually all my other independent options run out and I need someone.
So I guess this is just to say, I feel you. And I love you. And take care of yourself.